The Waking Hour
by Soicalyx
Summary: RENAMED! A deal with a price is made by a woman who feels she has no choice. A man's life hangs in the balance, all for the chance to rechart destiny. AU, my second fic! CH UP! REVIEW!
1. I Can't Refuse

AN: Yeah, I'm not done with the other story, but this was just an idea that's continued to bug me for a while, and I wrote it down. Please let me know what y'all think! Reviews make me very, very happy. Like, update happy.

Diclaimer: I own nothing :(

* * *

Time. An entire lifetime's worth of love. Christine had felt it all in her long lifetime. The most beautiful stirring of love, and the scalding pain of loss. Lying in her bed she recalled it all. Yes, she thought to herself, her life had been more than any woman could dream of.

_A real Prince Charming came for me...I felt a love that lasted an entire lifetime...I sang for Kings in a grand opera house...I had my beautiful children...and I heard a true angel sing...a mortal woman has known all of this. I shall ask for no more._

* * *

"Mother," Christine recognized the voice calling faintly to her. Her sweet, raven-haired daughter, Audrey. She felt the young lady's hand take her own, but could not find it in herself to open her eyes. "Mother, can you hear me?"

"Audrey, how is mother?" Another recognizable voice. Her handsome son, Philippe. _Ah, so they've come to care for me until..._

"She's still ill, but she's sleeping, it seems." Audrey raised a hand to her mother's wrinkled brow. "Mother," she whispered lovingly, "what dreams are you having?"

"Probably of Father in their younger days," Answered Philippe. He looked at his mother's gray hair, sprawled upon the pillow, and tried to remember the exact shade of brown it had been in his childhood. The exercise only reminded him that time had indeed passed in their lives.

"Or, perhaps of the Angel of Music she had to leave behind when she married Father." Audrey laughed softly at this, much like her mother had in her younger days. "It was always one of mother's favorite stories to..."

The voices faded out, and soon Christine even became numb to her daughter's fervent touch. _Ah, I see...I'm passing on. _Even if she'd been afraid before, now it was too late for such worries. Her children had their father's legacy, and lives to lead of their own. Beautiful Audrey would be a fine mother to Henri's children, when the time came, and Philippe had just recently struck the fancy of the kind daughter of the Marquis of Limoges. For her children life had only begun, and it was enough. With that, Christine could finally be at peace. _It's time. _She walked forward in darkness instinctually knowing that this was the direction to go.

She even felt a little excited about the other world. Would she see Mrs. Giry? Raoul? Or, perhaps, her strange tutor? _Erik..._

* * *

A burst of light roused her. _This is it._ She stood before a wondrous being, cloaked in shining white robes. Even with its face obscured, she knew it was not human. Such glory was reserved only for angels.

"_Christine de Chagny,"_ It called out to her, "_come forth, that I may guide you on to paradise."_ It spoke with such a beautiful voice that Christine paled. Only one man had ever spoken like this, and she wanted to weep at the very sound. She rushed forward.

"Erik? Erik, is that you?" She stepped forward boldly, never realizing that for every step she reverted in age, until she was again as she had been at the opera house. Her hand shot out and grasped at the hood over the being's face, only to suddenly retract it.

This was not Erik. This being whose long silver tresses flowed forth and whose beautiful face held no expression was not the man she'd known on earth. This was a mighty angel, and nothing more. "_I am not Erik, Christine." _He answered with no emotion. "_Now follow."_

Without resistance, she followed. "Of course," she said to herself, "everyone must be on the other side. Erik must be waiting there, too."

"_Erik is not in Paradise,_" The angel said, never missing a step.

"Then, is he still alive on Earth?" Christine wondered at his physique. He'd been twenty years her senior, and she'd lived the full span of her life, so how old was Erik now that-

"_Erik is not on Earth, either."_ He did not look back to her as she halted, but went no further without her.

"How can-"

"_He is filthy. Loaded with sins that could not be washed away with the time he had left. For him, there can be no Paradise."_ The cool tone would have sent shivers down Christine's spine if she'd still been attached to her physical body.

"Erik is not...Erik was not a perfect man," she began, "but to be denied happiness and peace, even now, is cruel." Her doe eyes entreated him. "Please, can I not see him?" Christine was flooded again with the past, and the white mask of her beloved friend.

"_You cannot enter the caves of hell. You were meant for fairer grounds._"

"Even now," she murmured indignantly, "even now, he lives in sheltered caves?" The pain of this knowledge was clear in her face. The poor, unfortunate man that she'd cared for...he hadn't been saved after all. Her soul wanted to weep for him, but lacked the physical ability.

"_It is as it must be,"_ the Angel responded. "_He accepted it as such, and did not try to resist me."_

"He wouldn't. He thought he deserved it all, in the end." Pity welled in her, like she'd known only once before, when she'd sailed away from a broken and lonely man. _No, I cannot leave him a second time._ "Take me, then. I shall give my place to Erik."

"_An unclean soul cannot pass the gates. Your sacrifice would be in vain._"

"Then I will not move from here." She was serious and set on her course of action. His face had been stained from birth, but his soul had been pure at one time...hadn't it? As the woman who'd learned to love him as he was, Christine felt she owed him for all of the happiness she'd known.

"_Are you so eager to throw away everything, for this sinner?"_

"He threw away everything I would have shared with him for my sake." Christine replied. "He taught himself compassion and love, when he had scarcely enough to survive on all of his life. This was not a fair life- it was sad and cruel and tortured. To rise above that-"

"_He murdered._" He cut her speech short with a cold, hard fact. "_He murdered and succumbed to evil._"

"But he was so alone!" She groaned in frustration. How could such a beautiful being not understand her point? "He grew up alone with cruelty as his education. Why would heaven make a man, give him no kindness or goodness, and then punish him for that which his first education disposed him?"

"_Then, by your logic, if he were not alone...if he knew kindness and goodness, he would have never learned such behavior?_"

"Yes. If he'd been given that chance...if he'd known someone like that-"

"_Then, if you'd only met him sooner -- the true man, and not the angel-- would you have helped him?_"

His words struck a chord with her. Was she really willing to release everything for this man? Would she have loved him and helped him stand as a man ought to? "Yes, I would."

"_Then one more chance will he be given. And you, too, woman, but at a price._ _You will hurt, as will he, but you alone will bear the pain of knowledge in this pact._"

"I-I do not comprehend." She spoke slowly.

"_One more lifetime will be granted. A test to you both. This is, of course, only should you accept._"

Could she do this? Could she give up heaven and hurt for Erik? 'Has he not been alone for so long, Christine? Has he not hurt?' Her mind wandered to Raoul, and she felt guilt weighing her judgement down. 'The man I loved, the man who fathered my children...'

As if the being knew her thoughts, he spoke to her. "_One love, one lifetime. Your promise to your husband has been kept, woman._ _It weighs not on this offer."_

A silence enveloped them a moment. She felt as if everything - heaven, earth, and hell- were standing still for her and her decision. "I will return." She nodded and spoke quietly, "I will not leave him to hell."

"_Then, woman, you will return to the Earth and find him," _the Angel responded. "_Instead of taking his place in hell, take him with you to paradise._" His hand raised itself out to her. "_Make this pact with me._"

* * *

AN: Well? Read, review, and wait for the next chapter!


	2. I Remember

AN: Chapter 2! I just couldn't help myself! I had to write the next one ASAP. And, by the way, I need to do a major edit on CH 24 of Paradie Lost, which is why it's taking so long. Thank you all for you patience, and for your desire to read the next chapter in either series. I am deeply honored.

Review and I'll update faster :) !

Ch. 2

* * *

Christine had not known the meaning of the being's words as she took its hand, but she had decided. "Why would you do this?" She asked, a little afraid.

"_You have accepted a difficult undertaking, woman. Accept all burdens that result from this as your own doing._" When it did not directly answer her question, she did not repeat it, but instead watched as the divine creature opened its palm and revealed a small glowing orb of light.

'What an odd coloured light.' she thought to herself. It wasn't white, but a kind of champagne, as if something had tempered the orb. Thinking the being held it out to her, she reached to touch the sphere with her free hand, but was surprised when it suddenly burst like a bubble at her fingertips.

"What-"

"_It is done._" The being brought his hand back.

"What is done?" She was still startled by the action she'd accidentally caused.

"_You've released him from his shadows." _Something unreadable was held in its eyes when it looked at Christine just then, but she was too upset to notice. "_He will be reborn on Earth, bound to repeat the same black existence as before._"

"But, you said he would not-"

"_**You**, woman, said he could be saved._" It corrected her. "_Now you must try to stop fate from repeating itself. Your salvation as well as his now depends on it._" The creature opened his palm a second time, producing another orb. This one, however, glowed with a blinding white light.

"Is that...?"

"_Now, woman, go back and earn your place in Paradise again, along with his._" With his other hand he snuffed out the light, and Christine felt as though she were choking. She sank down and gasped, watching the emotionless being with pleading eyes. She felt stranger than she ever had, as if her very soul would fall apart at any moment. Every gasp was an attempt to keep its shape. And yet, she knew she was struggling in vain. The decision had been made, and she could not turn back now.

"Who...are you..." Everything became hazy at that moment for Christine, and darkness consumed her.

* * *

How long would she be in this state? Not alive but existing, waiting to be born? She no longer had a body, but parts of her mind seemed intact. Her memories were blurry, but she could make out certain things. Faintly she could remember spotlights warming her skin, and the feel of a wedding ring on her finger. Above all, one image haunted her.

'Who wore it?' She thought lazily. 'This mask meant...something to me. I remember, so it must...' The one image that remained with her was a porcelain half-mask. Its feel and color- all ths she could remember long after she'd forgotten her own name or the color of her own hair. 'But why...' She couldn't focus anymore in this space. Only moments after a question or thought arrived, it would drift away, leaving her no time to ponder even though she had time to spare. She would remain more than a century like this, in the gray space between being and not, not even able to recall the reason _why_ she was there.

* * *

"You're doing fine, Anne! Just keep it up!"

"You're...not helping, Gus." Anne groaned, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. She knew he was just nervous, and trying to show his support. But she also knew if he kept his cheering up she'd use the bedpan and knock him into next week. He squeezed her hand, even as she refused to let go of his shirt.

"Breathe, honey." Gus reminded her. This was supposed to be easy. The lamaze classes had to have taught them _something_! "Remember to breathe, just like in class. Remember, Anne?"

"Do NOT talk down to me!" She pulled at his collar and brought them eye-to-eye. "I may be in labor, but I am not a five-year old. Now, get me some help, Auguste, or by God I'll make YOU deliver the kid."

That was the Anne he knew and loved. Fiery and beautiful. But her threat to make him deliver the baby scared him to high heaven. Where was Doctor Phillips? He should have been here by now, ready to deliver their baby.

"Sorry to have kept you!" They looked up in relief to see Dr. Phillips enter, ready to deliver their baby. He positioned himself at the end of the bed and smiled. "You've dilated plenty, and your contractions are coming faster. It looks like this kid's in a hurry."

"Well, it's been in there nine months," Gus said, patting his wife's belly. Anne, in turn, grabbed his hand and squeezed it. They smiled at each other a moment.

"Pat my stomach again and I'll kill you." She said pleasantly. She turned to the shocked doctor. "Dr. Phillips, can you please deliver our baby before I pass out?"

Her mirth surprised him, but he nodded his head. They were an odd couple, he knew. A foreign musician who could never be made angry and a skilled costumer with a foul mouth and odd disposition. Although in reality the three of them had been college friends, Dr. Phillips could not imagine what kind of parents they would become. But, here came the new addition, and he would have to bring it into the world.

"All right, let's deliver this baby."

* * *

A small bundle was wrapped in a blanket by a kindly nurse after it had been cleaned up. The nurse hummed softly as she hurried down the corridor to take the baby to its waiting parents. The song was one she could not name, a sing she'd heard on the radio on her way to work, but it had caught her attention. When she heard the baby softly coo, the nurse laughed.

"So, you like music, do you?" She opened the room door and held out the baby to the anxious mother. Anne immediately brought the baby close to her as Gus watched. She pulled the blanket aside to look into the baby's face.

"Does the baby have a name yet, Ma'am?" The nurse asked. Anne paused a moment to look at her husband.

"Well, Gus?"

"I was supposed to name it if it was a boy, remember?" He laughed. "I was thinking about the name Christian."

"Christian..." she mused aloud, "well, I like the name, but it's not quite right for a little girl." _Christian...Christie...Kirsten..._ Something seemed to whisper in her ear, like an autumnal breeze, and she knew the name. "Christine. Her name is Christine."

Gus nodded in approval as he sat next to his wife on the bed to look at their child. "Such a name, it suits her somehow." He brushed her brow lovingly with one hand. "Welcome to the world, _petite_ Christine Daae."

* * *

What, you thinkno moreDaaes exist in this modernworld of ours? Well, surprise! Please review and let me know how I'm doing! Pretty please?


	3. Father Once Spoke

AN: Chapter 3 is up! Short, but does have a point. I hope you will indulge me and read on.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything!

* * *

"Christine Daae, if you don't hold still you won't get this costume on!" Anne cried out, a threaded needle in her mouth. She was trying her best to keep her daughter from wriggling around and sew up the costume.

"Mama, it's boring," Christine mumbled quietly, trying to hold still. She played with the frill of her ballet skirt.

"Well, it can either be boring or you can have a needle stick you in the bum," Anne muttered. Her threat worked, however, because Christine stilled. Quickly she went to work on her stitching.

"Now, Anne, don't be so hard on my Lotte." Auguste's deep voice merrily chimed. Christine sprang to life again when she heard her Papa close the front door. She jumped down from the chair and slipped out of her mother's grasp and bounded to her father.

"Papa!" She leapt into his open arms and hugged him tightly.

Auguste hugged his nine-year old and kissed her cheek as Anne walked to them. "You're back for the holiday, then, Auguste?" She smirked. "I almost worried that you wouldn't make it back in time." She leaned in and kissed him.

"Of course I'd come back for little Lotte's recital!" He smiled broadly. How could he miss his own daughter's ballet recital? Although he wished she were performing vocally as well, he was excited all the same. He'd driven like a madman from his gig just to make it.

"And?" Anne gently reminded him.

"And for Christmas with my family." He corrected himself. He turned to his daughter. "Have you asked Santa for something, _enfant_?"

"Of course she has!" Anne laughed. "But will she tell us?"

"No, no!" Christine cried out happily. She touched her nose to her Papa's. "Guess!"

"Perhaps...a new doll?" Gus asked. She giggled and shook her head.

"A shiny bicycle?" Ventured her mother as she grabbed their coats. She gave Auguste Christine's and slipped on her own.

"No, Mama." She jumped down from her perch and was handed her coat. She opened the door. "When the recital's over, I'll tell you." She tapped her dainty foot playfully. "But we can't stand around here! We have a schedule to keep." She went out to wait by the car and Auguste helped his wife into her coat.

"Schedule to keep?" He laughed. Anne shrugged.

"That scary-faced ballet instructor of hers has really made an impression on her."

* * *

"Very well done, children," Madame Giry patted their heads as they came backstage. The children had danced _The Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy_ for their delighted parents before allowing the older students to take their place. Her rare praise, however, did not last. "Enjoy the holidays, however, because we're back to square one next class."

The ballet rats scurried to their waiting families in the wings, but Christine knew her parents would be in the audience. It was fine by her, because she could see best behind the scenes. Making sure that Madame Giry was watching the dancers and not her, Christine hid close to a backdrop and peeked out at the older girls, who were pirouetting gracefully. She recognized the difference between herself and the other girls, whom had developed in a way she had not. Their limbs seemed more limber, their forms more lithe somehow...and it shone in their dancing.

"Mme Giry," A boy's voice called out behind her. Christine turned, a little startled, but could not see in the dark of the backstage. She tried to keep stone still so she would not be caught. "You shouldn't be here," the voice called out after a pause.

"_Shh..._" Christine simply shook her head and brought a finger to her lips, imploring him. Madame Giry would surely be angry that she was so carelessly traipsing around. She hoped that, wherever this boy was in the dark, he would not betray her secret. The sound of a small laugh was the only response she was given.

"Why are you here?" Madame Giry whispered, trying not to disturb the performance. Christine kept silent, waiting for the lecture that was sue to come.

"I wanted to see the ballet," responded the disembodied voice. Christine felt relief wash over her. He hadn't mentioned his discovery yet.

"I am not sure your mother-"

"She didn't see me leave." The voice replied. "It's Christmas Eve, Mme. Giry." To this, Mme. Giry sighed and produced a key from her pocket.

"Watch from wherever you wish, then. But do not be seen. She-"

"Thank you, Mme. Giry." She nodded and went back to watching the dancers, trying to keep her mind on something other than their conversation. Christine looked to where she was sure she had heard the boy's voice. Had he left? Whoever he was, he hadn't ratted her out. She smiled to herself. _Such a pretty voice..._

* * *

"Well, dear Lotte," Auguste said as he drove home, "do you remember what you promised before we left?"

Christine giggled. "No..." she feigned innocence, but her mother shook her head.

"A deal's a deal, Christine. Your performance is over, so now you have to tell us what you asked Santa Claus for." Anne smiled at her tired daughter, hoping that whatever it was she wanted it was within their price range. They couldn't afford a pony this year, either.

"I don't know if Santa can give me this, but..." she was a little embarrassed, since little Meg Giry had laughed at her for it...

"Well?" Auguste asked, trying his best to coax her. At times, their little girl was very shy about what she wanted.

"I want an angel...no, _the _Angel of Music, to visit me." She finished, beaming. Annie merely smiled. This was definitely not in their price range.

"Why, sweetheart?" Asked her mother.

"Because Papa once spoke of an Angel of Music. And he only comes to visit good little girls and give them the music of heaven." Christine paraphrased her Papa's favorite bedtime story. "And I've been very good, haven't I Mama?"

Anne laughed. 'Damned if you do, damned if you don't...'

"Of course, Christine." Her father answered tactfully. "But the Angel of Music will come to you when you need him most, _ma chere_." When he saw his daughter frown but nod in the rear view mirror, he was relieved. "Just be patient. You'll have your angel."

* * *

A/N: Christine's first mention of the Angel of Music! And whose was that voice in the shadows? Review and I'll continue the story...seriously, I'm disheartened at the lack of response :( Even if you dislike it, write a review flaming the story. At least then I'll be getting feedback. 


	4. Much Still to Learn

AN: Didn't abandon this one, either! New chapter's up, please enjoy and leave a lil review for me.

By the way, since exams are coming up, my updates for both stories may be a little slow for a bit (Sorry in advance!)

Disclaimer: If I owned PotO, I wouldn't have to do fanfiction because it would have gone MY way from the beginning.

* * *

Time passed for Christine, and soon, like the ballerinas she'd so admired, she blossomed. The dolls and toys of her childhood slowly transformed into jewelry and makeup. And slowly, ever so slowly, she forgot about the fantastic being she'd wished for one Christmas... 

"Mama, it's really happening!" Christine laughed. This was it-- she was auditioning for a top school. _The_ school for performing arts on the east coast. She'd worked and practiced and now was her time to shine. If she were accepted to the conservatory, she'd be trained as an opera soprano.

Anne patienly tugged down the slip of her dress, a silky blue outfit she'd made especially for this audition. Christine had said no other designer would do. Personally, Anne was very thrilled with it. It was elegant, from some era gone by, and somehow it would match her song well. "Christine, are you ready?" She placed her hand comfortingly on her daughter's shoulders.

Christine nodded. "Let's go get father." Anne sighed at that one -- Auguste was a wreck at the moment. He was so worried about the audition that he'd spent the last two hours playing his music terribly. His technique seemed to have disappeared as the time drew closer. Faintly she remembered how useful he'd been during labor..._Never again,_ she reminded herself.

Anne could hear the destruction of music coming from the den, and sighed. "Gus!" She cried out over the caucophany, getting his attention. Only his wife, after all, called him Gus, and only when annoyed. "It's time to go."

He checked his watch. "Now? We have a few minutes, if she wants to practice or-"

"Gus, either you get into the driver seat and get Christine to her audition or you can stay here and try to learn how to play all over again. Either way, we're leaving now." Anne gave him a quick peck on the cheek and walked out of the den, knowing he'd soon follow.

* * *

The chairs of the university sat beind their impressive mahogany desk in front of the orchestra. With a wave they asked the secretary to rush in the next applicant and picked up the last one's resumee. This...Carla girl had studied opera abroad, and her voice had been trained thoroughly. 

"What do you think, Firmin?" His co-chair paused, looking over the application.

"I'm not sure. Already she seems to act like a diva. She has the character for it, Andre." They looked at each other and sighed. They had a limited amount of positions available for their conservatory this year, and the competition was proving difficult to judge.

"And what does our patron see in her?" Firmin asked nervously. While they held the right to final judgement, the opinion of the school's benefactor was always welcomed.

Andre turned to look at the speakerphone plugged in next to him. The black box was silent a moment.

"...she won't do."

"It seems she's not quite the right type, either." Andre sighed and turned back.

"Then who _would_ he want in the school?" Firmin spat out. Although he'd contributed a great deal of his wealth to the program, their patron was very strict in his guidelines for acceptance. Perhaps too much so.

"Mr. Firmin, Mr. Andre," the secretary cleared her throat, making them both pay attention to the stage. "Miss Christine Daae, applicant 21." With that, the older lady nudged Christine forward to the stage. Andre observed her a moment as she took in her surroundings.

'Well, she's very pretty,' he thought to himself.

"Miss...Daae, is it?" Firmin asked, receiving a small nod from the girl. "The song you'll be performing is-" he tried to find the information in her file, but must have misplaced it somehow.

"It's called 'Eric's Song'...by Vienna Teng," she whispered. Her anxiety was making her feel as if she would faint at any moment, but she needed to let them know what she'd be attempting to sing for them. Andre and Firmin wrote something down, then waved a hand to the sound technician. The man on the speaker phone was silent, waiting for her.

"When you're ready, then Miss Daae," Firmin said. He'd never heard of the singer, but he was not keen on today's popular music. So far the arias he'd heard from the other applicants had been challenging and given them a leg up in the competition, even if they'd failed at finishing it. The sound of soft piano notes woke him from his reverie, and he returned himself to the present. All three men waited for the girl to commence, wondering what sound she would produce in contrast to such whispered music.

_'Strange how you know inside me  
I measure the time and I stand amazed  
Strange how I know inside you  
My hand is outstretched toward the damp of the haze'_

Her voice was whispering too, unsure. As the piano became louder, though, she seemed to draw strength and sang louder.  
_'And of course I forgive  
I've seen how you live  
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes  
You pick up the pieces  
And the ghosts in the attic  
They never quite leave  
And of course I forgive  
You've seen how I live  
I've got darkness and fears to appease...  
My voices and analogies,  
Ambitions, like ribbons  
Worn bright on my sleeve'_

Christine's eyes looked at some unknown point in the audience, keeping her mind off of the audition itself. It was as if she were singing to her sweetheart, just after a rocky moment.

_'Strange how we know each other  
Strange how I fit into you  
There's a distance erased with the greatest of ease  
Strange how you fit into me  
A gentle warmth filling the deepest of needs'_

There was something to this song of hers. Firmin didn't want to admit it, but there was an attractive element in this song, in the way she sang it for them...

_'And with each passing day  
The stories we say  
Draw us tighter into our addiction  
Confirm our conviction  
That some kind of miracle  
Passed on our heads  
And how I am sure  
Like never before  
Of my reasons for defying reason  
Embracing the seasons  
We dance through the colors  
Both followed and led..'_

The burst of energy she'd had leveled off, and her song became more somber. Even her face had changed somehow to accomodate the emotion of the music.

_'Strange how we fit each other...  
Strange how certain the journey..  
Time unfolds the petals for our eyes to see  
Strange how this journey's hurting,  
In ways we accept as part of fate's decree--  
So we just hold on fast,  
Acknowledge the past,  
As lessons exquisitely crafted.  
Painstakingly drafted,  
To carve us as instruments  
That play the music of life.  
For we don't realize  
Our faith in the prize  
Unless it's been somehow elusive  
How swiftly we choose it-  
The sacred simplicity  
Of you at my side!'_

Her voice, again so whispered and soft, broke away and rang out in those final lines. As she went into a flourish with the piano at the end, not singing words but lilting her voice, she did not notice the third man in the audience listening to her over the speakerphone with a curious expression on his face...

* * *

Christine crumpled into her chair as soon as she'd left the auditorium. She watched as her parents rushed to her, anxious to know how it had gone. 

"Well?" Auguste asked, hands trembling in excitement. "Are you in?"

"Gus, they're not going to tell her that now. It was only the performance part of the audition today." Anne pet her daughter's hair lovingly. "Well, Christine? How did you feel?"

"More nervous than I thought I'd be," she admitted. She looked up to her parents. "I think they might have been expecting a more classical piece." She sighed and gave a sad smile. Originally, she'd wanted to perform something along those lines, but then she'd heard this song and something about it had really affected her. The heartache of the lyrics or the beautiful piano, perhaps? _Eric's song..._she'd known, the instant she'd heard the name of the song, that she'd use it for her audition. Now, however, she wondered if it was the right choice after all.

"Little Lotte, it's done and over with." Gus smiled at his daughter. "And I am sure all you need is to take your mind off of this." He pulled out some slips from his breast pocket. "So, how would you like to join me and your mother to the theater?" He handed one of the three tickets to her and saw he face light up.

"Father, how did you get tickets for this?" Her eyes were as wide as saucers. The new show was extremely popular, both for the brilliant score and the mysterious idenity of the composer.

"Let's just say your father has ways," Auguste answered, pleased she was so excited. Anne hooked her arm with her husbands, a grateful smile on her face. Once Christine was in college, she'd have less time to spend with them. She wanted all of the time with her daughter that she could.

"So, Chris, you have quite a decision to make," Anne said. "You can either go see the critically acclaimed _Don Juan Triumphant_ with your parents and have a wonderful evening...or you can sit in that chair and sulk." Anne laughed as Christine rose quickly and hugged them both.

"Thank you!" She kissed her father's cheek, then her mother's. Worries about her performance melted away with this, a chance to see _the_ show of the year. As Christine and her parents left the auditorium and got into their car, she couldn't wait to see what other surprises the day had in store.

* * *

"Well, that was the last of the applicants." Firmin sighed, dropping the last file on the desk. "Now we have to choose." 

Andre turned to see the speakerphone was still on. Their benefactor was still on the other line, listening. "And what did you think, Mr. Destler?" Most had not quite been to par in their donor's opinion, but there must have been _some _applicant that had pleased him.

"The girl who didn't sing an aria," he mused. "What was her name again?"

Firmin rifled through the files until he found her icture clipped to one. "Daae. Christine Daae."

"There is a great deal of potential in that one, even if she has much still to learn."

"Are you quite sure you mean Miss Daae?" Firmin inquired.

"Positive. Now if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. You're both capable of filling the remaining positions. Good night." The dial tone alerted the chairs to the end of their conversation on the subject of Christine Daae.

The chairs looked at each other. 'The remaining positions..' That meant Christine had his approval. Though there was a certain amount of uniqueness in her choice of song and delivery, there had been applicants who'd performed much more challenging work. Why was she the most memorable? Though they could not understand it, they had to admit that Destler had an excellent ear...

* * *

AN: Dun dun dun! Now thing's will begin to move...if you leave me a review hint hint 


	5. My Music

AN: I am procrastinating by posting this chapter. Instead of studying for exams, I've taken the day off to write, proof, and post. Yay! Please review and make this a worthwhile endeavor.

Ch 5

* * *

Christine had to close her eyes tightly to stop the tears from falling. How could she have known that this music could touch her so? She sat at the edge of her seat, watching the lovers on the stage as if they were real people she'd known before. _So familiar...this wonderful, painful music._

Auguste dropped his hand to take his daughter's. Since the play had begun, it seemed that Christine had become overwhelmed by something. Even now, she didn't realize he'd taken her hand. He motioned to his wife to look over at their daughter, and she just smiled.

"_She must get it from you_," Anne whispered. Where else would Christine get this intense devotion to music from? But she did have to admit, this play really was something else. The costumes were as exquisite as the music. _That composer must have excellent taste...I might have to show him samples of my work for his next hit._

* * *

"Did those substitute dancers arrive on time?"

"Yes, thanks to your threats," the man on the other line answered. "I can assume they're capable of picking up the routine in the time they had?"

"The flamenco flourish at the end of the second act, correct?" She chuckled. "Without a doubt."

"I thought so." He allowed himself one of his rare smiles.

"Erik...you _could_ leave your hiding place and see the show in person." The pause in their conversation disheartened Mrs. Giry of that prospect.

"I have seen the show. It's going beautifully." He answered with a businesslike tone. "The only reservation lies in the Aminta chosen. The high F above C is impossible for her to reach."

"Well, it is a difficult note to ask of anyone. I've seen the play, and Miss Charlotte dos have a certain charm to her voice."

"I suppose I did cast her for a reason," he admitted.

"You did," Mrs. Giry assured him. "But...the performance is not the only thing I meant to speak to you about. Have you considered my suggestion at all?"

"Mrs. Giry, I don't need help." The voice sighed at her. She held the black receiver of her telephone close to her ear. Mrs. Giry sat at her desk, filling out some forms with her free hand.

"Erik...you live in such a large house."

"I've managed perfectly well thus far."

"I can see that. I just think it might be helpful to have someone around to keep up the house, now that you're so busy."

"It seems as though the play's ended." Erik paused a moment to listen from his hiding place. The applause was faint, but he could hear it.

"Tactful retreat," she responded."But I won't keep pressing the subject. Good night, Erik."

"Good night, Mrs. Giry." He hung up and placed his cell phone in his coat pocket. Behind the doors backstage, he listened in the alley. His hand went up to touch the door with his palm. _It's my music they've applauded._ That sole fact was enough for him.

His thoughts were disturbed, however, when he heard people entering the alley. Erik lowered his head and moved into the shadow beside a backdrop.

* * *

"Lotte, you couldn't stop crying throughout the performance!" Auguste laughed. "I began to think I shouldn't have brought you."

Christine laughed and wiped at her eyes. "I don't know what came over me, just then." Her brilliant smile caught the eye of the shadows.

"Did you even enjoy the play at all?" Anne asked her daughter. "You seemed so out of it, maybe you didn't see it at all."

"Oh, no! I can remember the lines so clearly," she responded, alarmed at her mother's suggestion. Christine brought a hand to her chest. "Somehow, it's all in here, stored."

"Are you certain, _petite_?" Gus asked, earning a nod from his daughter. "Sing us something, then."

Erik could have bashed his head in on the brick wall just then. He could not stand to hear his music badly sung by an amateur, even a pretty one. The sound that came to his ears, however, was not what he'd expected.

_'No thoughts within her head,_

_but thoughts of joy_..'

Erik watched dumbfounded.

'_No dreams within her head_

_But dreams of love!'_

_The high note..._, Erik mused to himself. _The girl can hit the note._ True, the voice had its flaws, but it was a pure sound.

'_I have come here,_

_Hardly knowing the reason why!_

_In my mind, I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining,_

_Defenseless and silent._

_Now I am here with you.._

_No second thoughts,_

_I've decided...decided...'_

She stopped abruptly, shyly looking around. "I think that's enough. It's kind of embarrassing to keep going. Somebody could hear." Her parents were watching with something like wonder, and her father began to clap his hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" He called out into the alley, holding a hand out to Christine. "The lovely Miss Christine Daae!"

The three family memebers all laughed as they moved on to their car, leaving the shadow with nothing but a song and a name.

_Christine Daae.._

* * *

AN: Review! Please? 


	6. Her Father Promised Her

AN: Again, procrastinating. Hope you'll review and enjoy the update!

Discalimer: Own nothing :(

CH 6

* * *

"Auguste, hurry home to your wife and daughter!" Yelled the bassist, John C. He laughed as he watched their pianist become suddenly very aware of the time. "Man, you forget to rush home even on Christmas Eve?" 

Auguste nearly slammed the cover on the keys. It was late, anyway, the club would be closing soon. The few people left here on Christmas Eve were too drunk to be listening to music, anyway. "I'm sorry, fellas, but I have to go. My girls are waiting for me back home."

The rest of the band laughed, and John C. took Auguste's place at the piano. His large tanned hands lifted the lid, and he cracked his knuckles dramatically. "Don't worry about it, Auguste. I need the piano practice." He began a jazz improvisationwinking at Auguste. "You go have a Merry Christmas with Annie and Christine."

"Merry Christmas!" Shouted Auguste as he jumped off the stage and grabbed his coat off of the hook. "Merry Christmas, fellas!"

"Ol' Augie's really excited about Christmas, huh?" Shouted Max, the drummer. John C. just laughed.

"Well, it's also his kid's last ballet recital. She's going to be a singer and do her old man proud."

* * *

"If your father doesn't show up in two minutes, he's sleeping in the snow this Christmas," muttered Anne. Really, had the man even remembered the recital? Christine's final recital, in which she was the black swan! Her last triumph as a ballerina, before going into music. He _had _to be there! 

"Mama, you don't need to worry." Christine answered, finishing the top bun on her hair and fastening it. "He always comes home for Christmas."

Anne turned to admire her daughter. The costume she currently wore. A velvety black leotard with sheer stockings, her eyes rimmed with thick, dark kohl and jeweled. In her bun, a small black crown of feathers. Anne smirked at her latest creation- she really did look like the evil temptress of Swan Lake.

"Well, for his sake, I hope so." Anne sighed. The truth was, his job was a long drive away, and it was snowing. The roads would be slippery, and if he wasn't careful...

"Are my girls waiting for me?" His deep voice jolted her from her morbid thoughts. Relief consumed her, and she brought her arms around her husband.

"If you're late like this again, I will personally bury you in the snow myself and leave you there." She brought a hand up to his cheek, and turned his head to her for a kiss. "Welcome home."

Their sweet moment was interrupted by Christine, who cleared her throat quite loudly. "If you don't mind waiting until I'm a safe distance away..." Her parents laughed, and Auguste looked her over.

"An excellent piece, Anne."

"I thought so," she replied smugly, "but if we don't move it we're not going to make it on time."

"Well, then," Auguste sighed, "we'll just take a shortcut around the old pond road. We'll shave ten minutes off."

"The old pond? Isn't that road a little icy?" Anne bit her lip.

"Mama, Papa, I'm going to be late!" Christine looked at the clock. Waiting for Auguste to come home had taken up too much time.

"It will be fine," Mr. Daae assured them. "I put the chains on the tires, and I've driven there before."

"Well..."

"Please, Mama!" Said Christine, handing everyone their coats. "If I'm not on time and sign in, Madame Giry will have to cancel my selection, and I won't perform at all." Christine _wanted_ to do this- to say goodbye to her dancer years as she formally began intense training at whatever school accepted her. She wanted to dance for them one last time, and to perform the difficult 32 pirouettes in her part.

Anne finally nodded her head. "All right then. Let's hurry up and go."

* * *

"Andre, Firmin, I trust you received my Christmas gift to the school." 

They both looked at each other. How could one miss the grand pianos being installed in the school. "Yes...we are both delighted by your charity.." Mr. Firmin began.

"It's not charity," replied the voice from the speaker phone. "It is...an investment."

"An investment, Mr. Destler?" Inquired Andre. "In what?"

"In talent, of course," he responded. "I believe, someone very gifted will be enrolled in this school...and I intend to take advantage of my position."

"Your position?" Andre asked, again confused.

"Reports on this person's progress will be made to me, and when they've reached the point of perfection, I'll simply snatch them up for my pieces before their talent is made known to anyone else." Erik's mouth formed a small smile. "It's simple business, gentlemen."

"I see," was all that Firmin could say. With a few donations and gifts, Destler was securing himself talented performers. Hadn't most of the cast for his Broadway show, in fact, been recent graduates? And these were just ordinary talents...if he found himself a real prize...

"I hope you shall obey my desires and reserve those reports for my eyes only."

"Of course," replied Andre. It was Mr. Destler's wealth that kept the university going, after all.

"Good. Merry Christmas to you both." With that, he hung up.

"Well," sighed Andre, "the man's smarter than either of us gave him credit for." Their wealthy, eccentric donor was turning out to be a cunning creature...

* * *

Mrs. Giry handed a packet of programs to one of the little ballet girls. "Hand these out while we wait, Margaret." The crowd in the theater was growing impatient, she could hear it in the rising sound from the people sitting just beyond the stage. 

"Mama, why aren't the first years out on stage yet?" Meg ran to her mother as she slipped on the pink leggings of her _Gizelle_ costume. Why they were showcasing a series of acts from different plays instead of doing the traditional _Nutcracker_, Meg could not fathom. But to not even have started by now...what was her mother thinking? Normally, Mrs. Giry would not stand to be five minutes late, but here it was ten minutes past curtain rise and she was stalling with extra leaflets!

"Christine's not here yet," she sighed. "The 32 roulettes in her part are supposed to be one of the highlights of the night's program, so I thought I'd give her a little more time."

"But people will begin to leave," Meg said, looking out beyond the curtain. "And the act from swan lake isn't the first one. She'll show up before then."

Mrs. Giry sighed. The show would have to go on, one way or another. "All right, Meg. Line the children up for the first act."

* * *

Erik drew open one of the large velvet curtains in his study, something he did not often feel inspired to do. He looked out into the barren landscape of his garden, buried in snow. Everything looked dead and frozen over- there was no life of any form poking out from that white blanket. 

How long had it been, since Erik had _wanted_ to look into the garden in Springtime? Not since childhood, at least. Now, however, he appreciated the wintertime. And, just beyond the walls enclosing his property, he could see the city, and the world beyond it. Somewhere out there was a girl who would bring Spring to the souls of men, who would sing for _him_!

He let the curtain fall down and cover his view once again.

"Merry Christmas, Miss Daae."

* * *

Beyond the bend of the old pond road the snow was falling gently, as if God himself wanted to cover the lives ended by the icy path. It covered the ground, and the upturned car in the ditch beside the road. It covered the bushes, and the small figure that had collapsed in the snow.

Christine tried to keep her eyes open, tried to crawl and find someone to help. _Oh God, help us..._her tears stung her face. In her panic and terror, Christine could not find her voice and cry out. She did not have the strength to continue against the cold, and fell. She laid there, waiting for death. _Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing...her father promised her that he would send her the angel of music...her father promised her.._

And the blood, too, was eventually covered, leaving three bodies in snow coffins.

* * *

AN: Left it at a good point :P Review and I'll hurry and finish the next chapter and post it. Please? I'd really like to get feedback on this story! 


	7. Return to Me

AN: Reviewers, you inspire me. I seriously live off of some of your comments (yeah, I've developed a huge addiction for them...so keep me stocked, ok?). Here's the next chapter!

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

There was a light shining everywhere. And in that light, she felt the cold snow dissolve and her skin prickled with the new warmth. Christine opened her eyes slowly, blinking quickly at the new brightness. _I remember this..._ How could this white light be so familiar?

A shadow fell upon her eyes, and she looked upon the figure with more than a little fear.

_"It is time, woman." _The being spoke so beautifully, a voice that reached the very bottom of her soul. As her eyes adjusted, she saw the being's matchless, emotionless face.

"Who are you?" She whispered. The being held out his hand to her, with something like a silver droplet shining in its palm.

_"It is time to keep your promise,"_ He took a step forward, hand still outstretched. "_It is time for you to remember...everything."_

As her hand raised itself to grasp his she stiffened, feeling overwhelmed.

* * *

When she opened her eyes again, the bright lights were gone. Instead she found herself in the middle of a dance. Around her swirled men and women dressed in beautiful colors, singing. None of the dancing figures bumped into her, but instead glided in elegant circles around her. For a moment she spun, taking in the disguised figures and delighting in the beauty.

She stopped, frozen in her tracks, when she the lights suddenly dimmed. Turning, she saw one figure dressed in magnificent red, descending the grand staircase. Everyone was looking at this one man.

_'Have you missed me, good messieurs?_

_Did you think that I had left you for good...?'_

That voice- she knew it! She knew the dulcor tone, even when it was this husky. As the masked figure descending further she felt the crowd that had been around her suddenly step back, leaving her exposed. It was then she noticed the mysterious man was headed towards her.

_'As for our star,_

_Miss Christine Daae...'_

She looked up at him in surprise. How did he know her name? Why was he addressing her? She wrung her hands, only to realize she was wearing gloves. She was dressed in a soft pink ball gown that felt tailored to her. And something heavy around her neck...

_'No doubt she'll do her best,_

_Her voice is good, she knows-_

_Though should she wish to excel,_

_She has much still to learn,_

_If pride will let her return to me,_

_Her teacher,_

_Her teacher...''_

His eyes stared at her again, as he finally stopped advancing. He watched her breathing hard, in nervousness or exertion, she couldn't tell. And, strangely, she found herself walking up the steps slowly to meet him. _I know him...I **know** this man!_

She stopped only a foot away from him, her breath hitched in her throat as her looked at her. _Oh, God, those eyes,_ she thought, _I remember those pleading eyes..._ His eyes stopped short at her neckline, and she gasped when he pulled the chain around her free.

'_Your chains are still mine,' _he sang, coming closer to her and waving the ring on the necklace. "You belong to me," he whispered fiercely before running into a cloud of fire. She watched him go, feeling as if her soul were leaving her body.

_I remember!_

* * *

"We're losing her!"

"Clamp the injury, and get the surgeon in here now!"

"Temperature?"

"30 Celsius and digits suffering from cold."

"Ok, I want a warmed IV drip now! Rush in the radiated heat lamps, have them on full blast."

"Blood pressure's dropping!"

* * *

Madame Giry waited impatiently. The entire night had been spent in the ER, waiting for news, ever since she'd been phoned by the police. No wonder she hadn't been there that night!

She held her head in her hands, and prayed to God for her. _Live, Christine! You've barely even begun to live._

"Mama," Meg whispered, getting her mother's attention. She held out a cup of coffee to her. "Mama, have they said anything?"

Madame Giry sighed and took the cup from her daughter. "They haven't said anything."

"But she'll be ok, right?" Meg looked at her hopefully. "Christine can't die!"

"Not if there exists a benevolent God in heaven." She took a sip from her cup, feeling better with only that. _She survived the crash, and collapsed in the snow and lived...she has a guardian angel watching her. She cannot die now..._

* * *

Everything exploded inside her. The ghosts of her past possessed her once more, reducing her to tears. She clung to the angel's robes, heaving sobs. "I remember him...I remember..Erik."

_"Then you remember our contract."_ He continued, looking down at her. _"You made your decision long ago. Now you must return.."_

She stood weakly. "Return?" The numbness began to disappear, and she remembered the icy road, and the screaming. "Oh, God..." she whispered, "my parents? Where are my-"

_"Their suffering has ended." _The Angel answered. _"They've passed on."_

"B-but they were not a part of this deal!" She cried out in horror. "They were not supposed to die!"

_"You made this pact, knowing you would hurt for it."_

"They made no pact!" Christine wept. "They were my parents, and I loved them..."

_"This accident was not fate. They passed on, but you will survive because of our deal."_

"W-what?" She sputtered.

_"Until you've met him again...until contact has been established, my part of the bargain is not yet complete._" The being held out its hand. _"Do you remember, the man you have to meet once more?"_

Her breath escaped in a little shiver. "Erik," she whispered. She stood and faced the angel- there would be time later to mourn her loss...right now, she needed to return to life.

_"Then accept your punishment." _His hand shot out and grasped her throat. She tried to wrench free as she gasped, but his hold was strong. She felt herself growing faint as his voice trailed off. _"Accept your loss as payment, for no mortal may alter the will of heaven unscathed..."_

_Who...are you?_

* * *

"Christine?" The warm voice of the older woman caused her to stir. Languidly she opened her eyes, and turned to see Madame Giry sitting by her bed. Meg hovered in the doorway, and quickly ran out to alert the doctors of the news.

_Where am I?_ She looked around at the machines, and felt the IV needle in her arm. She turned curiously to Madame Giry, but didn't even have to ask the question.

"You're in the hospital, Christine." Madame Giry smoothed the girl's furrowed brow with a tender hand. "The accident...and the snow...left you in quite a predicament." Madame Giry tried her best to look cheerful. "But you pulled through, petite. You're going to be fine now."

_And my parents, _she wanted to ask, but she already knew the answer. Her wonderful family was gone. One tragic night had robbed her of love and reminded her of her purpose. Was this the Angel's payment? The tears flowed, even as Madame Giry wiped them away.

"Don't upset yourself, Christine...you're very delicate right now and..."

_I don't care!_ She cried out, then froze. She looked at Madame Giry, who looked only at the sheets now, then grasped her throat.

"I'm sorry, Christine." She finally looked up again, tears in her own eyes as Christine began to comprehend her situation. Christine's lips quivered in terror.

Her mouth formed question, but silence consumed words.

_What's happened to my voice...?_

* * *

AN: Like it? Do I have your curiosity peaked? Then please review. I need to see if there's an interest in this story before continuing.


	8. Fighting Back Tears

AN: Been a while, huh? Well, I'm kicking it into overdrive at school, leaving me very little free time lately...but I've really gotten into writing this, so I will NEVER quit this fic! Determination Motivate me and leave me a lil review, ok? I promise to keep trying my best if you do!

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

The pure white snow kept falling outside, becoming gray sleet as it fell on the road outside the hospital. The large rectangular window afforded a full view, and the patient sat in front of it and looked out blankly. She did not move, and her eyes were dull and unresponsive. Christine found herself trapped within her own sorrow. 

Mrs. Giry watched her from the doorway, unable to bring herself to enter quite yet. She remembered, as if it had been yesterday and not weeks ago, that Christmas morning when Christine awoke to find her family and voice gone.

_Christine looked at her, tears streaming as her mouth formed silent words that Madame Giry could not understand. All that Madame Giry heard were hoarse, unnatural breaths._

_"The accident," she explained calmly, "it was very bad. The windshield shattered on impact...and in your throat-" She watched as Christine touched the bandage around her throat in horror. "They were barely able to save your life, but was done at a price."_

_Her wheezing became louder, as Christine began to hyperventilate._

_"Christine," she spoke softly, "please calm yourself." Madame Giry took her hand, squeezing it tightly. "If you panic-"_

_Her warning came too late. Christine sobs increased, and she began to choke on the bandages around her neck. The alarm system on her monitor shot up as her heartbeat began to race. Within moments, Madame Giry was ushered out of the room by nurses as the doctor applied a sedative to his hysterical patient._

* * *

Christine had been unresponsive since, as if she'd given up on everything. She no longer smiled, no longer danced with the vitality Madame Giry had loved. She could not blame the girl for lingering. For her, everything must have felt lost now- her dream of singing, of making her parents proud onstage, of living the happy ever after all children dream of, was gone. It would be a painful road to recovery for Christine, but it had to begin now. 

"You're being discharged tonight, you know." She walked in, and sat in a chair next to her. Christine said nothing, only continued to stare out the window. "You can't stay like this forever, Christine. Would your parents want this?"

A sigh rose from the young girl, and finally she weakly turned to see Madame Giry. Her hand reached up slowly and touched her throat. The bandage had finally come off, but that small white streak told the tale. Madame Giry knew what Christine was trying to say. _I've lost everything. _Her dark eyes looked so tired of fighting back tears, and Madame Giry wondered if they'd ever be bright again.

Gently, Madame Giry pulled out the large pad of paper and pen that the doctor had left for Christine, and eased them into her lap. "Please, Christine." Her hand guided Christine to the pen. "Let me know what you plan to do now. Where will you go now?"

Christine opened her mouth instinctively, but closed it quickly. With a weary hand she began to write. _I don't know._

"While you were here...some very exciting letters came to your house," Madame Giry pulled out an envelope, the real reason behind her visit. "You've been accepted into the Garnier College of Performing Arts, Christine." The excitement Madame Giry had expected to incite did not come.

_I will never sing again. Pointless._ Christine knew she had nothing to do with life anymore, that she had one job on this earth- to find Erik. Yet, she wanted to be alive. She wanted to sing, and live onstage for him. But, that dream was all over. How would she find him now?

"They accepted you on late-decision, Christine!" She sighed...it was a miracle she was in at all, being out of school for a semester! "Your dance is excellent, too. Don't forget that you could enroll in the school's ballet program." She gave a small smile.

_Can't afford._

"There are options, Christine."

_Selling the house?_

"Yes," she agreed, "that's what I was considering...and I was talking with Meg. She really likes the idea of having another girl around the house."

_No._

"We could help take care of you, drive you to your sign language classes." Christine frowned at Madame Giry's offer.

_I am not crippled. I'll find a way._ She paused a moment, looking at her companion with an emotion Madame Giry could not name. _But I can't go back home...too many memories. _

"I understand," Mrs. Giry murmured. When her own husband had been lost, she had moved far away to keep her sanity. "It would pay your whole tuition, Christine."

_I want to live on my own, a little further away from the city. _

"But you love the stage." She understood her desires, but it would be insane to give up on her talents and board herself up and become a hermit. _Like Erik...,_ Madame Giry thought to herself.

The idea struck her like lightning. "Christine...what if I found you a part-time job...and a place to stay?"

* * *

Erik hadn't felt annoyed for ages, but here he was pacing his study. There had been no report concerning the Daae girl, ever since the letter had been mailed. Why was this girl no jumping at the opportunity being dangled in front of her? How could she turn her back on the promise of her voice? 

"And why in hell do I care?" He yelled in frustration. There were plenty of future sopranos within the walls of the Garnier school, so what made this one special? Why did he keep hearing her voice in his head?

The ringing phone caught his attention. With a sigh, he picked up the receiver. "Yes?"

"Erik, I've found you a housekeeper." Madame Giry's tone was decisive, but Erik was not quite in the mood for politeness.

"Madame Giry, you know my stance of the matter-"

"She's perfect, Erik. She cooks, she can clean, and all she'd ask for is room and board while she attends school."

"But I don't need one." He sat back in his chair. "You understand why I prefer my privacy. I don't want curious women talking about my secrets."

"Yes, but that's exactly why she's perfect." She smiled sadly, looking back at Christine as she changed from her hospital gown and into a pair of dark blue jeans and a sweater. "She's mute, Erik, and has no family other than me."

* * *

Hearing Madame Giry speak of her, Christine lifted her head and gave a weak nod. She needed to try to move forward in the arts- it was the only way she'd find Erik again. If he were here on earth, he'd be a musician. This much she felt certain of, and if she could have this man hire her while she searched, her life would be that much easier. 

She thought for a moment on her parents, who'd gone beyond that beautiful white light. It hurt, this eternal separation, and she had a feeling that the pain would never quite go away. But there was still hope, a way to prove that she _could _save someone. Her survival would not be in vain, she swore to them.

_I'll find Erik. I'll help him._

* * *

Erik thought for a moment. The house was becoming more and more difficult to keep together as he spent more time composing. Having someone to fix his meals or turn down his bed didn't necessarily mean they had to see much of each other, either. Perhaps it would be beneficial, after all, so long as the girl understood her position. "Come by tomorrow afternoon. I want to meet this girl." 

"All right."

* * *

AN: Next chapter, they finally meet again! More reviews faster update ( I know, I'm a terrible human being...). Let me know what you think! 


	9. Start to Soar

AN: Yay, I found my keys! Now, I'm in the midst of more exams and a 20 page paper...updates will be hard to do for both stories...wish me luck and write a review and I'll forfeit my grades for the greater good!

Disclaimer: I own nothing :(

* * *

On the ride from the hospital to Mr. Destler's home, Christine looked out the window. The snow blanketed most of the scenery, silencing the sound of life. In her desire not to upset Christine, Madame Giry didn't turn on the car's radio. Instead they listened to the delicate sound of the road they drove one, trying to find something to say or express. 

"Mr. Destler's not a bad man, just a bit reclusive," Madame Giry began. "He's a little quiet and works long hours, so he may seem unsociable to you, but he'd be a fair employer to have." Out of the corner of her eye she saw Christine nod and look ahead. "If you don't feel comfortable there, we can always figure something else out, so don't feel obligated to stay."

Madame Giry rounded the corner and brought the large place into view. Christine moved forward in her seat, trying to take it all in. There were high walls surrounding the manor, with black gates guarding the only entrance. She wondered why such a guarded place would leave its gates open.

"Well, at least he opened the gates for me," Madame Giry sighed. As they pulled up Christine admired the grounds. The manor was elegant, with a very Victorian design. The snow covered the ground evenly, but the statue of a beautiful angel shone through it. She wondered what kind of flowers and designs laid beneath that snow, waiting for spring to return. The idea of being here at that time filled her with a slight hope, but as she opened her mouth to say something to Madame Giry she was reminded again of her predicament.

"Come, Christine. We musn't keep him waiting." Madame Giry opened the car door for her young charge. Christine nodded her head and stepped out, turning to see the steps leading to the massive doors.

_I'm nervous_, she thought to herself as they walked up. Madame Giry outstretched her hand and rang the doorbell, and when no one answered, produced a key from her pocket.

"I don't like to be kept waiting, either." She opened the great doors and stepped inside, past the entry way, leaving Christine standing at the threshold.

* * *

Erik had just settled into a book by the fireplace in his library when he heard the loud chime of the doorbell. Sighing, he dropped the book and stood. He'd invited Madame Giry and her girl, but he hadn't expected them quite yet. Honestly, the idea of a housekeeper sounded less and less appealing the more he'd thought it over. Even now, Erik had no idea what had possessed him to agree to this meeting. He'd just felt the need to suddenly. Now he was sure that he'd made the girl and Madame Giry come for nothing, and he'd be showing himself. That fact irritated him to no end. 

Slowly, his hand crept to reach across his desk. He picked up the object and set it to his face. _Well, I might as well go and be done with this matter._

He strode out of the library and down the hall, nearly reaching the staircase before seeing Madame Giry standing at the base.

"It was cold, so I let myself in." She spoke in a factual tone, to which he shrugged.

"It's fine, I'd rather you not catch pneumonia," he spoke softly. He began to descend slowly. "And I'm sorry I've troubled you over this, but I think a housekeeper isn't necessary right now. I can-"

"But you haven't even met her," Madame Giry interrupted. "And I have brought her all this way."

A sigh escaped Erik's lips. "All right. Where is she?" He took a few more steps as Madame Giry smiled and turned back to the door.

* * *

Christine shuddered as she looked at the entrance. It was decorated it rich, dark wood. And, though scarcely decorated with a few vases and paintings, it seemed like the mere entrance was worth more than a whole year's tuition at the Garnier. 

_I can't do this!_ She had little time to run away, however, when Mrs. Giry reappeared and grabbed her quickly by the hands.

"It will be fine. Just come and meet him." She spoke soothingly, but Christine still felt a great desire to leave. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire, and it was all she could do to look down as Madame Giry led her. She saw the base of a beautiful staircase and finally looked up, sure she'd reached her destination. She was given a gentle push forward by the ballet instructor.

"This is Christine Daae."

* * *

"This is Christine Daae," Madame Giry said proudly, just as Christine's eyes looked up to the figure advancing slowly from the staircase. Erik's breath hitched a moment, just steps away from her. _This is the girl!_ He'd never seen her in the light, and had to admit she was lovely. And, oddly, her expression was not one of fear or disgust. After the initial surprise, her eyes had taken another emotion altogether... 

She looked up to find herself the subject of a piercing gaze, hidden slightly by a white half-mask. _Erik._ It was the only word that rang in her mind as he watched her. Was it really him? Had she found him so easily? Slowly, she took a step towards him, repeating a moment that had passed over a hundred years ago.

_Erik..._

* * *

He watched her advancing slowly, and found himself stepping forward as well. He stopped mere inches from her, peering into her soft doe eyes. He took her in, looking at her beautiful brown ringlets and rosy cheeks, completely unaware of Madame Giry's presence. 

_Why,_ he wondered, _why does it feel like I've been waiting for her? I didn't know it would be her! _Suddenly, his eyes spotted a thin white scar on her throat, his hand itching to touch the soft skin. He sudenly turned to the side, and walked towards Madame Giry, leaving Christine to sort out what had just happened.

"Is she really mute?" He asked, almost in anger.

"Yes," Madame Giry admitted sadly. "I'm afraid that Christine lost her parents and her voice in a terrible accident." She watched as Christine turned back down the few stairs she walked up with a flustered expression.

"How long ago?" Erik murmured.

"Very recently. Only a few weeks ago." She motioned Christine with her hand, and the young girl came to stand beside her. "She needs a roof over her head while she attends the Garnier, and is willing to do some housekeeping and cooking in exchange."

"If she's mute, why bother attending the college?" He spoke harshly, before he realized the bitterness in his tone. It was just so frustrating! She'd been the most promising of the accepted students, and he'd made such plans for her! Now that she was mute, what was the point? He was met with her indignant eyes and a flash of hand gestures.

"I'm not very well versed in sign language, but I don't think she's very happy to hear you say that." Madame Giry chimed. "And I believe the college offers more than vocal training. Christine is an excellent dancer, and plays piano very well. She could major in either field very successfully, I believe."

Erik was too preoccupied with his annoyance at the moment, and turned his attention again on the young girl. Christine observed him with hurt feelings. It was her maestro, all right. She knew the moment she'd heard his voice, even if he hadn't spoken to her. His dark hair was elegantly arranged and he wore a dark black suit, even though she doubted he was expecting to leave his home that day. She'd only realized her purpose a few short weeks ago, but in her heart she ached the moment they'd met. Christine _felt_ the years she'd waited in an instant, and her spirit start to soar when he'd looked at her, until he'd said those harsh words. Now she simply hurt. Memories or no, she was still just an eighteen-year old girl.

"I take breakfast at 7, dinner at 8. Dust irritates me, as does loud noise while I'm working." Erik said. Christine's expression completely changed, and her eyes widened. "I assume you will have no problems with my demands." A vigorous nod of her head answered his question. "Then have Madame Giry bring your things. You'll start tomorrow." With that, Erik turned and headed back up the stairs.

Christine watched him go, with something like...sorrow? _No...longing_, she realized. _I want him to look at me like that again..with those eyes._ She was jolted fromher thoughts by Madame Giry's hand. The older woman smiled kindly at her.

"This is very good news, Christine, isn't it?"

Christine couldn't help but give a weak smile in return.

* * *

AN: Let me know how it's going! Review! Please! 


	10. Compassion Anywhere

AN: Exams are officially over! Now for the grades to come... :(

Make me happy and review! I'll hurry and work on the stories here on if you do!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my work ethic (and that's worth about a cup of coffee...a damn good one...but not starbucks, because that's not coffee...that's liquid propaganda for the man)

* * *

Within the course of the afternoon many things transpired. Madame Giry and Christine quickly packed the few things of great value from the Daae residence, leaving immediately to avoid causing Christine more injury. It wasn't much she took with her- some clothes and photographs, her mother's books, and her father's violin- and it fit in the trunk of Madame Giry's car. As they drove off, Christine knew she would never return to the house of her childhood, where she'd been so blissfully unaware of fate and heaven and tragedy. No, Christine knew she'd lost a kind of innocent ingorance that night, and it would do no good to try to regain it.

When they'd returned to Erik's home, all they found waiting for them was a letter from him, excusing himself from them. In it, he gave specific instructions for the women to follow. The servant's quarters on the first floor would serve as Christine's rooms for the time being, and he asked that she leave her things there. In the envelope was a set of brass keys, one of which was to her room, the other a skeleton key for the rest of the manor.

_Except,_ he wrote in deeper strokes, _my music room. Your assistance is not needed there._

After that small warning, he gave her leave to aquaint herself with the house, since she would begin serving in the morning. At this Madame Giry smiled and moved to put the letter away, but Christine reached out for it, a pleading look on her face. Odd though it was to her, Madame Giry allowed her to keep it.

"Come, Christine, we must put away your things. I'll give you a tour afterwards."

* * *

The notes he played were not without charm or melody, Erik knew, but neither were they what he wanted. His fingers graced over the keys, while his mind was faraway.

_Christine..,_ her name sounded bitter to him now. The stupid girl had gone and injured her one true beauty before his plans had even begun! True, she could study other fields at the Garnier, but what she'd been most suited for was out of reach now, and he reproached her for it.

_Then why,_ he pondered, _why did I agree to this deal?_ He assumed it was for the same reason he'd originally considere her help, before he'd known her name- she was mute. Without a voice to gossip with or other servants to gossip to, she really was rather ideal to have keeping his house. _How absurd!_ He thought wryly, _am I beginning to show pity, when the world showed no compassion to me?_ It was a laughable notion, but it bothered him nonetheless.

* * *

_This place is far too large for one man to live in alone,_ Christine jotted down on a pad of paper as Madame Giry fixed some of the portraits on the shelf in her new room. After walking down the long corridors of the east and western spires, she realized how useless most of the rooms upstairs had become. Her own quarters had to be aired out and scrubbed before she could start to unpack, and that alone had taken a few hours. She dreaded the project that the upstairs would present to her.

"You'll grow used to it," Madame Giry assured her. "He will never bother you, either."

_No, that's not what I'm worried about._ Christine assured her. _It just seems very lonely._ It was true, the house was beautiful, but it still felt so dead. Perhaps it was the snow and ice that froze everything, or perhaps the fact that it was all new to her gave her this impression. _Or perhaps these memories that will not go away..._ she thought to herself. The pieces of the past that she remembered gave her the most bizarre feelings, but underneath it lay the most intense sorrow she'd ever felt. _His._

"I will visit you, _ma petite,_ as will Meg." Madame Giry squeezed her hand warmly. "And soon you'll be taking classes and be very busy yourself." Christine looked up at the old friend who was trying to console her, and smiled gently. Her hand found the pen and she began to write.

_Thank you. I will be fine, Madame. Really_. She nodded her head, trying to reassure her instructor. How could she be so selfish? She had her good friends worried sick, when they knew nothing of the events of nearly a century ago that had set this life of hers in motion! She'd wanted to find him, she _still_ wanted to find him, and her voice had been the price. She could not turn away from this now.

"Then I suppose I should let you rest, Christine. It's been a very tiring day." Madame Giry looked at Christine's face, weary from the weight of so much sorrow already, and pet her brown locks gently. "Go to bed early, to make sure you are able to wake up early tomorrow." She picked up her things and turned to see Christine already turning down her bed. "I will be coming by for visits, and to let you know about the house's sale."

Christine nodded, attempting to be cheerful for her friend. When Madame Giry left, however, she could no longer keep up the act. She laid down on her bed and cried, for the pain she remembered, and the loneliness she now felt. Her mother's little smirk and her father's hearty laugh...they'd been there with her only weeks ago, but now the sound was beginning to fade from her ears. The natural course of existence was unkind enough as it was, but for a young girl to carry fragments of two lives deep in her fragile heart was pushing a new kind of pain altogether.

And she couldn't speak a word to describe it, even if anyone were listening.

* * *

With the morning light came more realizations. Christine had woken up at 6 in the morning, only to find little notes everywhere. Apparently, her maestro did not sleep at all, because he'd busily moved around while she'd been sleeping. On the refrigerator there were simple explanations- _English Tea, Lemon, honey. Eggs over toast. The morning edition should be somewhere by the door._

_Well, at least he doesn't expect too much of my cooking,_ she thought to herself as she grabbed a nearby apron and tied up her hair. She was sure this was going to be a long day of reading along with her chores. She was not disappointed when, as she set the tray down in the dining room table, she found another note. _I eat alone. Fix your breakfast before heading upstairs._ What had she expected? Was she hoping he'd want to eat with her, a stranger? The hired help?

_Come now, Christine,_ she scolded herself as she prepared some jam and toast for herself. _Even if he's so familiar to you, he doesn't remember a thing!_ Well, maybe that was for the best, she thought. A fresh start, perhaps.

If he'd ever stay in the same bloody room she was in. With a silent sigh, she took a bite of her toast. Things like that couldn't be helped- she was just the housekeeper. He had no obligation to be polite to her.

* * *

At seven exctly he went into the dining room and looked the tray over. The eggs appeared edible, and the toast wasn't burned. Satisfied, Erik sat down and began to eat. He pulled at the newspaper and found the arts section. _La Traviata is playing,_ he mused. It was quite a piece of work, he had to admit. _When the right soprano sings it._ He had to suppress a slight shudder as he thought of the last diva he'd heard sing it. _Stupid, horrible redheaded peacock._

Another headline caught his attention. _Exclusive Interview With Reclusive Don Juan Triumphant Composer!_ He gave a smirk, and a few seconds later had his phone and dialed. He heard the click of a receiver and waited.

"I'm guessing you saw the headline." Sighed Nadir.

"Your clairvoyance astounds me." Erik tried his best to sound more upset than he actually was. No need to let his ghostwriter take liberties. "An interview, Daroga?"

"Erik, must we really go back to that?" Nadir sighed. Once he'd been a detective, and Erik had discovered the Persian word for it, the nickname had been born. "And I had very little choice."

"So this was life or death. The reported held you at gunpoint and questioned you for hours on your artistic inspiration?"

"The damn reporter was following me, you know. I had to make him back off somehow." He opened his blinds and looked around outside. The damn stalker was finally gone. "I stuck to the script you handed me. The whole 'I don't know, it comes to me in messages while I'm asleep' thing is very overdone, by the way."

"Well, if you don't agree to any more interviews, you'll never have to say it again." He sipped his tea. "And it might be a good idea to move if there are reporters bothering you."

"Again?" It irked him that he'd been in this house less than a year. He rather liked it. It had a goddamn reflecting pool in the backyard.

"A bigger one," Erik cajoled, "and I think it's about time you had that greenhouse you've wanted."

"Bribery gets you pretty far with me," Nadir admitted, "but try to let me live in the next place at least a few years." With that he hung up. He'd need to start looking for a moving crew...

* * *

Christine set the long duster down with a long, deep breath. Erik's instructions had become more and more detailed. _Dust the curtains down in the main hall, then vaccuum the rug and sweep and mop the floor to get anything you missed. Move on to the study and library afterwards._ Compared to the simple tidying in the hallways, rooms, and kitchen downstairs, the upstairs was a nightmare of fine decor. She'd actually needed a duster with a long handle to reach the tops of the curtains to these massive windows. _Windows he keeps closed, by the looks of it._

With a small sound of effort, she took up the duster and began to sweep in grand strokes, bringing the dust down and away from the velvety red material. She'd have to ask Erik to send them to be cleaned properly in the spring, or else the dust would just gather up again.

_If he ever says anything to me,_ she reminded herself. Halway through day one, and she still hadn't seen him. She batted at a deserted cobweb and then leaned forward to reach for another one further away. The blasted duster suddenly slipped from her hands and she scrambled to catch it. It just slipped her grasp and she closed her eyes, waiting for the clatter to echo. Instead it was a slight _thump_.

_Oh, God..._ she looked to her side to see Erik, gloved hand in front of his face with the head of the duster secured in it. Without a word they stared, one frightened and the other annoyed. Then Erik let the duster fall to the ground, and remove his gloves. He set them on the table off to the side.

"Those need to be cleaned by hand. I'll expect them tomorrow morning."

With that he turned and quickly walked away, leaving Christine to look at the now dusty white gloves.

_This_, she thought to herself, _may not be going well._

* * *

AN: Erik's a cold guy, I know...but he doesn't know her at all. Review and make my holiday season, ok?


	11. Why Can't the Past?

AN: Happy Holidays, guys! I'm sneaking in this chapter just before x-mas, hoping you guys will really enjoy it! Leave me a lil present in exchange, though...REVIEW!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the PotO soundtrack (huzzah for early x-mas presents!)

* * *

She turned the gloves over in her hands. The dusting and vaccuuming had been done in the main hall, just in time for her to start dinner. But before she did that, she looked over the damage that the duster had caused the fine gloves. The gray dust streaks were clearly visible on the glowing white gloves, and she sighed. It had been an accident, sure, but it was only her first day! And...Erik had looked at her and as if she were no more than a flea. She'd never been on the receiving end of the phantom's apathetic gaze, she knew. Before, even a day ago, his eyes were full of emotion of _some_ kind for her. That look hurt her more than any stern words might have. 

_No time for this now,_ she shook herself,_ I have to get supper on the table._ She pocketed the gloves and went downstairs.

* * *

Irritated. That was the best way to describe Erik's mood. The mishap in the hall had only heightened the feeling. And what had possessed him to walk through the hall, knowing very well she'd be there cleaning? Maybe he'd just wanted to observe her and then slip past her undetected, but that damned duster had ruined it. Now he was gloveless, and trying to play over the sound of the vaccuum in the hallway. Dumb or not, she still made too much sound for his taste. 

He hit a few keys in frustration, and gave up playing altogether. Instead he turned his attention to one of the catalogs the latest costume designer had sent over to his P.O. Box. Erik was always more enraptured with the sound in his plays than the beauty, but soon learned that both were absolutely necessary for it to be a masterpiece. _Don Juan Triumphant_ had been a dark, seductive work and Erik had needed the characters to look the part. Now he was working on something new, a revival of _The Tragedy of Medea_, and he needed the designs to match his vision. The beautiful woman driven mad with love would not be a monster in his piece. If anything, she would cause everyone to grieve when she died. _I'll make sure of that._

Thoughts of the new play took over his mind, and he didn't hear the vaccuum being turned off, or her steps down the stairs. It was only the sound of the grandfather clock striking the hour that roused him from his music.

* * *

Christine stirred the soup absent mindedly. Again, another note had been left by the master of the house. _Split pea soup and biscuits. A glass of brandy after, in my study._ And again, he displayed no form of kindness or a polite invitation to join him. 

The timer on the over beeped at her, and she set the soup to cool off of te stove. With oven mitts, she brought out the tray of soft biscuits. _Well, even now he's not expecting much of my cooking..._, she mused and as she set a pad of butter on the tray, _but I should start to look at some cookbooks and brush up just in case._ But perhaps these simple cooking tasks were not just to test her abilities. He might have been displaying some kind of sympathy towards her when he expected only simple dishes from her.

_And yet, I can't see him and as being that considerate..._ She ladled soup into a large bowl and set it on the serving tray before taking off into the dining room with it. Whether she was simply tired after this day or annoyed by his lack of feeling, she frowned and as she set the contents down on the table. What exactly was she suppose to do, when little was going in her favor on the first day?

With a little shrug she went away to fetch the brandy before she fixed her own dinner. She'd worry about cleaning the gloves later, since that would probably take longer to do. She noticed a little note over a small cabinet in his neat writing. _Liquor cabinet. You're not 21, so don't abuse my trust._

He was certainly going to make it hard to warm up to him, wasn't he? She took out her little skeleton key and unlocked the cabinet. She didn't have much experience in spirits, but there were not massive quantities of the stuff here. Some mixes, all labeled, and then a crystal bottle drew her attention. Some caramel-colored liquid swirled inside and as she grasped it, and she guessed this was what he'd wanted. Grabbing a clear glass and the drink, she headed up to the study by way of the back stairs.

* * *

When the clock had finished striking the time, Erik realized that it was dinnertime. He set the design books aside and placed a hand to his head, suddenly realizing his gloves had come off. He was able to sense the rift between his wretched skin and the smooth mask, thanks to that girl's little mishap. His irritation returned full-force, and he sighed. He would definitely not be going down to supper by way of the main staircase. If he had to look at her dumbstruck, frightened expression again, he might lose all patience with her at once. 

With his mask secured he left his music room and headed to the back stairs. He was not able to open the door to the stairwell when it swung open for him, and he found himself looking at the mute girl carrying his brandy and glass to the study. She looked up at him and nearly dropped what she was carrying. She managed to salvage the breakable bundle, but her eyes never left his face. Erik found himself even more annoyed at this and sighed audibly at her.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't gawk at me." He spoke in a tired voice, but retained all his irritation. First, the glove incident, and now she just kept staring! How jarring was the mask to her? She'd already seen it a few times, but she still looked at him with wide, studying eyes! If it was going to continue to bother her like this, hiring her might have been a pointless endeavor.

His chastisement seemed to work, because she quickly looked down in embarrassment. She opened her mouth and as if to say something, but closed it quickly. Again she raised her head shyly, and lifted a free hand to make a sign. _I'm sorry._ He shook his head and moved to the staircase behind her.

"I don't understand sign language, and it's probably not very necessary for us to communicate by any other way than a note now and then. Good night, Miss Daae." With that he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Christine shaking a little.

* * *

_How dare he?_ She thought angrily and as she placed an old washboard in the kitchen sink full of warm, sudsy water. She pulled the white gloves from her apron and wanted nothing more than to throw them in the water and leave them there. Again the only side she was being shown of her 'good genius' was his arrogant, callous one. Without her scrambled memories, Christine doubted that she could have seen him and as anything other than a jerk. 

She began to scrub the fine gloves and as she seethed. Slowly the warm water and fine, scented soap began to clear away the grime, leaving the gloves their pristine white color again. _This is not what I wanted._ Her heart seemed to beat in her ears and as she wrung the gloves dry. _What did I want from him? What was I expecting when I found him again?_ She knew the answer, and pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. _I wanted to be found. I wanted him to help me... I wanted to stop feeling so alone._

But it wasn't fair, and she knew that. None of this quite was. By all rights, she should have died in the accident with her parents. The only reason she hadn't had been the divine pact that had been made so long ago, and even that had come at a price. Erik owed her nothing, was completely out of this contract. It was she, Christine Daae, who had to accept the consequences of her decision. Hadn't those been the angels words? _WHy can't the past just die...?_

The first tear rolled easily off her cheek and into the water. A few more followed before she wiped at her tears with a soapy hand, still holding the gloves. _But that doesn't mean this isn't painful. It doesn't mean I'm strong enough to be this lonely._

_

* * *

_

The soup had actually been quite good, to Erik's surprise. It hadn't grown cold while he was delayed, and he'd found it to taste. Erik had eaten in relative silence, noting with some discomfort that small noises were coming from the kitchen just beyond the dining room. In the quiet he could hear water filling the sink, and the slight scrub of material against the washboard.

_Does she know that those gloves can't be washed with the ordinary detergent?_ He remembered he hadn't given her any instruction on what to use on them, and panicked for a moment. He really rather liked his small collection of gloves, and those were his favorite pair. They were an excellent material, and didn't limit his dexterity even when playing. It would be a shame if they were ruined because the new housekeeper washed them incorrectly.

His worry over his gloves overcame his dislike of her stare, and he rose to bus his own tray. Erik picked up the tray and moved to the kitchen door, only to find it partially open. He peeked in to see she was no longer washing his gloves. They were carefully laid to the side now, but she was hunched over the sink, hands clasped in front of her downcast face and as if in prayer. Even from this distance he could see the tears gleaming from her cheeks. To him, she looked so very angelic just then. And painfully unhappy.

Without a word he left her alone.

* * *

AN: LIke it? Review! Make my holly-jolly day! I have to admit...I felt so sad for Christine as I wrote this. But, there's always the hope for a happy ending, right?

* * *


	12. Angel of Music

AN: Since no one seemed to understand the last title, I'll try to explain- 'Salve Nos' is in Spanish. Not Latin. It means 'Save Us'. Since I've been getting dissatisfied with the title myself, I just decided to change it. Hope you like it better, because I already do :)

By the way, a review would help me VERY much! HINT HINT HINT

Diclaimer: I own nothing but the clothes on my back and my dreams...I'm currently taking bids...

* * *

Erik went upstairs to his study, where the brandy sat waiting. He walked past it and picked up the receiver of his telephone. Within a few rings he was connected. 

"Hello, Madame Giry." As he spoke he tapped a finger on his desk.

"Erik, how are you?" Her surprise was evident, but she seemed pleased. "I hope you've had no trouble with your new housekeeper after only one day."

Erik paused at this. As much as he'd love to make up some charge against the girl, she hadn't done badly on the first day. No, she bothered him in a different way altogether...

"The girl completed plenty of work for one day. I only called to ask if you about her sign classes."

"I'd completely forgotten to let you know her schedule, didn't I?" She sighed and looked at her calendar. "She's been taught a bit already, and only wants to know enough to get by, so she goes in to the hospital for schooling on Friday afternoons. The rest she's learning on her own." Madame Giry bit her lip at this. "At least, until classes begin at the Garnier. Then she'll be gone for most of the day, and be out of your hair." She really hoped he wasn't annoyed by Christine's presence.

"Then until school begins, she's going to be feeling rather lonely. Work will occupy her mind only so long." His simple statement took her by surprise.

"What?"

"I thought it might help her feel more comfortable as the housekeeper here if you visited her from time to time." It had only been a day, but she seemed lost already.

"If I visit every day, it's going to be hard to live the kind of life she wants to lead." Madame Giry didn't like it, but the girl had been adamant. She remembered the frown on the girl's face when she'd asked if she could live with her family.

_I'm not crippled._

"Her spirit's not crippled yet, but if I coddle her...," she sighed. "I didn't want her to live in isolation. It's why I suggested she stay with you."

"Of course, because I'm such a better alternative." His voice was soft, but the sarcasm was there. He didn't like being used, even by his good friend. "I'm not even sure this arrangement will work out."

"It's only been a day. She can't be bothering you already!"

Erik paused before answering. Her eyes bothered him from the very start, though he didn't know why, but that wasn't a viable excuse. Then what? He remembered her crying over the sink. "She's...crying."

"I'd be more worried if she wasn't." Madame Giry admitted. "She's suffered quite a bit."

"What am I supposed to do about it?" The irritation was slipping into his voice, even if the question held no malce towards his new housekeeper.

"I can't tell you that. Honestly, though, Christine is not the kind of girl who would cry openly in front of a stranger. She thought she was alone, didn't she?"

"Yes," he admitted.

"Then it's best you not mention it. It would only embarrass her." Madame Giry set down the cup of tea she'd been holding during the conversation, feeling some annoyance creeping through her voice as he spoke coldly about her old student. "Leave her be, Erik. She's been through enough."

"...what happened to her?"

"A car accident. It took away her parents as well as her voice." Madame Giry bit her lip for a moment before speaking. "You don't have to speak to her or go out of your way for her, but don't hurt her further."

Erik was silent. The information she'd given him actually didn't surprise him. He'd figured she was alone, if she'd agreed to live in his home. It merely seemed _odd_ that she was still grieving so much for her parents. Madame Giry's warning, however, did bother him, and something like jealousy overtook him. "Why do you assume I'd want to hurt her?"

"No, not willfully," she corrected. "You..have never had close contact with another person, much less a girl fifteen years younger than you are. Something you would take as criticism might actually hurt her feelings."

"Well, I'm sure she's grateful for your protective behavior, but it's unnecessary. As long as she does as she's instructed, she won't be bothered by me."

Madame Giry wondered about that. Something about the way he'd looked at her the first time they'd met left her unsure...

* * *

The memories were there, in flashes of sweet pain. It was only in her dreams, she later realized, that they weaved their history for her. 

She was in a small, dark chaple carved of gray stone. A little lit candle was the only source of light in the room-- the stained glass angel at the window did not refract the moonlight outside. Christine heard the sound of a child's crying, and she tried to focus her eyes. There, before the little candle, was the small figure of a little girl. In her little white robes, kneeling by the candle.

Although Christine could only see the little girl's back, she knew the girl was covering her face with her hands. The sounds of her sorrow were muffled, there in that darkness.

_Who are you, little one?_ Christine wanted to move closer, but found she was rooted to her spot. Instead, the child spoke.

_"Papa..." She shuddered out._

_I know her...,_ Christine realized.

_"Papa...I cannot do this alone." The little girl raised her hands in prayer. "Please, watch me from Heaven. Do not let me be alone here, Papa."_

Christine found her own eyes tearing. This child, so very lost in a labyrinth of night and stone, wanted her father. She could sympathize.

_"I don't wish to be alone. Please..." She didn't speak anymore, but trembled terribly. The silence loomed over her, threatening to swallow her hope. Then, a sound. The beauty of that voice as it sang caused the tears to stop, and the little girl looked up._

_"Don't cry, little one." The voice, soft as candlelight, filled her with divine hope._

_This voice..._ Christine watched the scene unfurl before her, hypnotized. _Erik..._

_The little girl smoothed her cheeks at the voice's request. "Sir?" The voice gave no reply, and she feared he had disappeared altogether. "Please, are you there?" Her voice was a little more desperate as if she was going to cry again._

_"I am." The wonderful, gentle sound soothed her. "What is it, child?"_

_"Are you the Angel of Music?"_

_"..." There was a small sigh. "Why do you ask?"_

_"I- my Papa told me you would watch over me...when he died." Her little hands squeezed together. _

_"Do you need me?"_

_The question seemed to make the child stumble mentally for a moment. "I..do. I cannot live here alone. Please, don't leave me."_

_"Life has been cruel to you, hasn't it?" There was nothing bitter or cruel in his tone. Sympathy was all it offered. "I won't be so cruel, petite. I'll watch over you, Christine Daae. Always."_

_"Thank you, Angel."_

When Christine awoke, she only had one question in her mind. Were these memories painful to the 18th century Christine, or merely painful after the fact because he would not show such tenderness now?

* * *

Christine looked tentatively at Erik's bedroom door, gloves freshly cleaned and pressed. Even though she'd already made breakfast and could have left the gloves on the table for him, it somehow seemed imperative for Erik to have the bits of cloth to cover his hands. So much of him had to be covered, it seemed. She felt it was urgent that she give them to him as soon as they were clean again, but she stalled for obvious reasons. 

With a quiet fear that every step she took made the floorboards groan with effort, Christine stepped towards the door, and set the gloves to rest atop a table just next too the door. Then, just as quietly she moved away. There was a library to tidy, more rooms to dust and vacuum, and the laundry was still waiting for her. She had no time to worry about another confrontation.

Christine fell into her housekeeping duties after a quick breakfast. This was beginning to feel normal-- sweep, mop, tidy-- and it kept her from thinking back on anything.

_Just keep cleaning, and nothing else,_ she thought to herself. Christine was picking up some dust with a pan and hand-broom, when a pair of black leather shoes suddenly made her freeze. What was she supposed to do? If she looked up, he might only glance at her with those apathetic eyes, but if she kept them downcast, he might just walk away...

"I don't understand sign language," he repeated, "but if you want to say something, I'll listen."

She couldn't help it. At those simple, kind words she looked up with shock. With a little tremble she stood, keeping her eyes locked on his. She parted her lips and, remembering her condition, quickly pressed them together again.

"Go on." He looked at her, commanding her. Unsure, she tried to speak, but the sound was only hoarse breathing.

_How can you?_ That was all she'd wanted to say. She bowed her head in defeat and pressed a hand to her mouth.

"'How...can you.'" He repeated. Her eyes shot back to him. "That's what you said, wasn't it?"

_Yes..but how?_ She didn't hear her voice, so how could it reach him? Her eyes held his, begging him for an answer.

He finally had to look away. Those soft eyes were filled with something he could not name. "I can read lips. As long as you don't speak too quickly, I should..."

She was crying again. He heard the sound, and turned to look at her. What was he supposed to do now? She wasn't looking at him, but was using the back of one hand to smooth away the stray tears. Finally he spoke, finding a gentle tone he did not know he possessed.

"Don't cry, little one." If he wasn't surprised at his words, he was by her reaction. She stilled, then looked up at him. And, so very slowly, gave him the warmest smile he'd ever seen.

_Thank you._

* * *

Everyone seems slightly happier, no? A review would make ME happier, though...man, I'm not subtle :) 


	13. True Beauty

AN: OK, this time it really is the last change of titles. I got lots of e-mails telling me it wasn't creative enough to call it 'Once More' so I'm changing it. As this story progresses I think you'll all understand it. And I really do hope you'll leave a review for me to keep me motivated to write! REVIEW, please!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my twisted imagination

* * *

Silence was no longer so terrible for her. Days began to pass with less pain and more motivation. As she ironed and folded and swept and dusted, Christine knew that Erik had no idea what he'd given her. Simple words, almost stumbling from his lips, had somehow saved her. This was not happiness, she knew. But for that bittersweet moment, Christine had remembered who had been kneeling in a cold chapel, so long ago, waiting for some kind of miracle. And then she remembered the relief of his voice. For that sound, for his kindness, she was more than willing to live by his side like this. Even if it wasn't her kind of happiness. 

"That's enough for today." His voice surprised her, and she jumped and nearly dropped her mop. She turned and looked curiously at the masked man standing at the doorway of the dining room. He still looked as stern as ever in his dark clothes and black air slicked back, exposing the beautiful white mask.

_Sir?_ Her mouth moved, and imitated speech. She'd wanted to call him by some name, but 'Erik' just wasn't right. Not yet, anyway.

"You have to go to the hospital this afternoon, don't you?" He moved a graceful hand just beyond him. "Madame Giry is going to give you a ride today, but you should get ready now."

Christine wiped her hands on her apron and set the mop off to the side. The past few trips to the hospital, she'd just finished up work and set dinner aside before taking a bus. It was a little...odd that he was reminding her. Then she put it together-- Madame Giry must have called to remind him and let him know that she would be taking her.

_What about dinner? I haven't started-_

"I can manage." He motioned behind him with his head. "Go on."

_Yes, sir._ With a little smile, she picked up the mop and bucket and walked towards the door. _Thank you._ She set off to get ready.

* * *

The girl hadn't cried again since that night, or at least she was more discrete about it. But that smile stayed with him. Her eyes had been so bright even as the tears had fallen down the apples of her cheeks, and it was a frightening experience for him. She'd been so happy at his words, even when he hadn't felt they were comforting! 

Sitting in his music room, once again alone in his home, he turned over that moment in his mind. He slid his gloves off and rested his slender fingers over the ivory keys as he thought. There was a beautiful, desperate contrast between those tears and that smile. It was something inspiring him to try and find the right music, to weave notes together and make a song out of his mute housekeeper's smile.

Erik reached up and touched the mask, removing it with a little tug and setting it beside him on the bench. It was time to get to work.

* * *

Madame Giry waited just behind her in the classroom, watching with interest as the small group began to practice signs with one another. They tried different conversations with each other, unknown to the outsider. Christine turned to her deskmate, Jack, and began asking him about the kind of music he liked and he answered that he enjoyed opera. 

_What operas, Jack?_

_Italian, mostly. Paggliaci._

_I prefer French, but Paggliaci is wonderful, too. _She smiled wryly at herself. _I wouldn't have thought you liked opera._

Jack, in his tattooed and purple-haired glory, laughed. _I like all music. I'm a man of many talents._

Christine smiled and laughed noiselessly at that one.

_Did you used to perform, Christine?_ His question shocked her, and her expression fell. He didn't seem to notice, though, because he continued smiling. _You just lit up when I mentioned opera._

She felt Madame Giry shift behind her, as if ready to shelter her from whatever had just made her uncomfortable. But Christine would not let herself cry here. She couldn't hold on to the hurt of that life she'd been forced to give up.

_I've never performed. I never had the talent._ She smiled as her hands wove her white lie. _I just really like music._

* * *

Erik paced around his music room, mind filled deep with note and sound and word. His new production hadn't been on his mind before she'd arrived-- he'd actually feared having to put the project on hiatus while he recovered from the draining experience _Don Juan_ had been-- but something was humming in him right now. Because of that smile. It was absurd, but he knew that inspiration didn't use reason. So he took what he could. 

His hands twitched as he moved, as if the keyboard were right at his fingertips. There was a conflict in his mind. _Medea. A murderess. A madwoman. Broken, lonely, human. Unloved?_

Erik knew what he wanted to portray, but the language of music needed to make it so. It would be futile otherwise. His _Modern Medea_ needed perfect music. A woman sure, beautiful, who would be brought to her knees and the edge of her humanity by the burden of a terrible love. Erik reflected on that, and saw Christine's eyes. No, those were not the eyes of the stricken, bloody Medea. And yet they made such an impression, as she smiled past any pain. Those soft eyes he could not read...

He shook his head at his own foolishness. Her eyes were not important, not right now. He had a different melody and a different scene in his mind altogether, and any unnecessary thoughts of his housekeeper would only muddle that. How stupid he was! How had he expected that moment to inspire something like this! He felt the frustration, deepening into a kind of despair, consume him.

The piano was within his reach now.

* * *

"Did that boy trouble you, _ma fille_?" Madame Giry looked over at Christine, now comfortably settled in the passenger's seat. She hadn't seen the girl for a few weeks now, and had time to get a good look now. Yes, she did look tired. Immeasurably tired and sad. Madame Giry was only unsure if the source of sadness came from Erik's cold behavior or that boy in the class.

Christine gave her one of her warm looks and shook her head. She looked Madame Giry in the eye as proof. Yes, it had hurt to be reminded, but what could she do? Christine had convinced herself that there was no point in feeling hurt in such a situation. So she smiled.

"Christine..." Madame Giry knew better, that the girl couldn't be recovering so quickly, but she was stopped as Christine raised a hand slowly. She pointed towards the windshield, towards the road, without a pause in her smile.

_Let's go. He's waiting._

Madame Giry understood only that she wanted to return to the manor, and complied.

* * *

Erik had just fixed himself a hot cup of tea and was taking it back upstairs when he heard the front door open. Within a few moments, Christine stood before him and he could not figure out why he hadn't quickly run away. 

"Hello." He watched as her face, which had been somehow downcast, become a little livelier. Still, it didn't ease him. "Are you all right, Miss Daae?"

_Have you eaten, sir?_ Christine moved her mouth fully, to make sure he could understand. _I can fix something-_

"I asked you a question, and I expect an answer." Erik spoke with more force than intended, but that tone had become natural in his isolation. When he saw her face fall and grow slightly pale, there was an unknown pang inside even when he knew he was not the cause of her distress. "What happened?"

Christine shifted and clasped her hands tightly, trying to find the distress in her own soul. Finally, she gave him a helpless look.

_I lied today._ She watched his face, hoping he wasn't disgusted. It was cool as ice. _I said I'd never practiced music. And I have._ She nodded her head to emphasize the point. _I sang. I wanted...to be a singer._

He understood then, not as a man but as a musician. It was painful for her and that's why she'd lied, turning from true beauty. Her smile stayed, but it no longer reached across her face. With a sigh he made a decision.

"Come with me." The look in his eyes gave her no choice. She walked with him up the staircase.

* * *

AN: Please review! What is Erik going to do? Will Christine really help him, or just drive him to madness? Will the snow inside his heart ever melt away? REVIEW and find out! 


	14. I Have Brought You

AN: It's been a long time coming, but thanks for the patience, all. I just really wanted this chapter to be good, to convey the complexity of emotionI'm hoping to achieve.

REVIEWS make me happy...skip in my step happy...update happy...

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and that's what's wrong with me...

* * *

He lead her, three steps ahead to keep a comfortable distance, up the stairs and immaculate corridor. Christine watched him, an overwhelming sense of deja-vu creeping into her. But _when_ had this happened? When had he led her, every now and then stopping to make sure she was still following? Eyes that she could see so clearly, even through that mask...

The click brought her back to reality. Erik had opened a very special door, indeed. He motioned her in with a languid hand, but she hesitated. Her head bowed slightly, she raised her eyes in question.

"Go on." His voice wasn't ordering her, but he was urging with a kindness, almost.

_A-are you sure, sir?_ Her mouth formed the words, wanting to be very clear before venturing in.

"Before I lose all patience, Miss Daae." His mouth seemed to frown slightly more, and she decided it was best to do as requested. Timidly, she stepped inside his music room.

It was dim, the rich red curtains closed and no lamps lit, but she could make things out by the light of the fireplace. Volumes and volumes of flowing script, she assumed it was music he'd written, lay in piles beside a beautiful mahogany desk. Two comfortable looking armchairs laid just beyond it, facing the lovely fire that was only beginning to die down. But it was the beautiful ebony piano that took her breath away.

She stepped forward, and looked it over in ardent admiration. The detailed workmanship assured her that this had not been generically manufactured. Every key, every inlaid piece of lacquered wood, had been placed after meticulous decision. But how did it sound? Her hand unknowingly hovered above the keys, but never rested upon them. The intrusion might never be forgiven.

His hand reached, and a finger touched the key. The note hung in the air, its wonderful resonance keeping it alive. Christine would have closed her eyes to focus more intently, but her mind was preoccupied. Erik was just behind her, arm right next to her. She suddenly found it very hard to breathe.

"Would you like to hear something played on it, Miss Daae?" To this she could only nod her head dumbly, and hope she wasn't staring too closely at those clear, piercing eyes. But she didn't see her reflection in those eyes. They seemed to see through her, straight into the pain. "It's why I have brought you."

She thought, for a moment, his hand raised itself from the keys and came closer. It extended up, towards her bare arm, and she wondered what that touch might be like. The sensation of the past life she'd led didn't carry with her. In dreams and flashes, there were images but no _touch_. But she had an idea, no, she was sure, that if he got any closer she'd collapse due to lack of oxygen.

"Then you should take a seat, over there." The lifted hand gestured to one of the armchairs. She turned a bright pink as she nodded and moved quickly away. She sat by the fire, looking intently on the figure before the piano. His back was straight, in perfect posture, as he chose his song. Then, as if thunder had suddenly struck him, his hands descended on the keys.

_Oh, my..._

He was playing Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu in C minor, and he was playing with the hands of God.

* * *

The only thing he could do was drown himself in music, and try to block his thoughts. The girl! The odd, odd girl! Why was it she continued to bother him, even after she'd long learned to control herself better? Why had he brought her here, to listen to him? He was her employer, not her maestro! Why was her disheartened condition of any consequence, then?

Because there was pain in her. Because he could look at her, and know the frustration that silently threatened to kill her. He could understand, and that's why he wanted her to see him play. He would not allow her to give in so easily.

But, had he really tried to touch her? Even now, as he played furiously, he could not accept that. Wouldn't. Then why had he brushed the air by her?

Too many questions with unsatisfying answers were heavy on his mind as he played, but his hands knew the music by heart. Flawless, beautiful song flowed like water into his soul, and it began to flood out his anxiety. All he was left with, and he hit the final notes, was tranquility. And her quiet applause.

He turned to see her sitting in the chair, hands raised in applause. She could not have known that this was the first time anyone had applauded his work in front of him. This mute girl was his first appreciative audience. Slowly, she stopped her applause, and they looked at each other.

_Thank you. _Her words received a little nod of his head.

Christine realized that her opportunity was here. _Courage,_ she told herself. She needed to do this.

_Sir...do you, perhaps, sing?_

He lost composure for a moment, and inhaled quickly. She was afraid she'd already displeased him again. "Why do you ask?"

_Your voice..._Christine admitted, feeling more rose in her cheeks. _Your voice is very beautiful. _

She was afraid she'd gambled too much, but after hearing him play a yearning had overtaken her. She remembered a voice that made something inside her ache. She so much wanted to hear it after she'd heard him play.

"What would you have me sing?" His question was quiet, almost timid.

_Anything. Please, anything._ She urged him, both with her eyes and silent words. He sighed, and stood, facing away from her. Again, she worried he was upset, when a plaintive tone touched her ears in such an intimate manner...

_Mi mancherai se te ne vai_

_Mi mancherá la tua serenitá_

_Le tue parole come canzoni al ventro_

_E l'amore che ora porti via_

No violin, no accompaniment of any sort, but perfect timing. It amazed her. But more, much more than this, was the loveliness of the song as this rich voice brought it to life. She could do nothing but sit as his voice enveloped her, and filled her with his presence.

_Mi mancherai se te ne vai_

_Ora e per sempre non so come vivrei_

_E l'allegria, amica mia_

_Va via con te_

_Mi mancherai mi mancherai_

_Perché vai via?_

_Perché l'amore in te sé spento?_

_Perché, perché?_

_Non cambierá niente lo so_

_E dentro sento te_

_Mi mancherai mi mancherai_

_Perché vai via?_

_Perché l'amore in te sé spento?_

_Perché, perché?_

_Non cambierá niente lo so_

_E dentro sento che_

_Mi mancherá l'immensitá_

_Dei nostri giorni e notti insieme noi_

_I tuoi sorrisi quando si fa buio_

_La tua ingenuitá da bambina tu_

_Mi mancherai amore mio_

_Mi guardo e trovo un vuoto dentro me_

_E l'allegria, amica mia_

_Va via con te..._

The song faded, but that voice was still within her. Tears traced her flushed cheeks, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. Her eyes trained themselves on his back, and would not leave his form. And in her warm, beating heart, she heard a voice. _So this...this is the voice of an angel. This is the voice I would bow to gladly, that struck me so long ago..._

He'd turned a little, and quickly turned away from her. The expression on her face would be his utter undoing if he looked for too long. Those tears...those beautiful tears...

"I brought you here for a reason." He still did not turn, would not turn until he was certain he was once again himself. "You have lost your instrument, Miss Daae, not your talent." He took another breath, then motioned at the piano. "Make your music, any way you can." Only after he'd said this, did he venture a look. Her tears were gone, but not that look in her eyes.

_Yes, sir._

* * *

It was later that night, after that voice had stirred life again in her heart, that she remembered the song. Pain and eloquence made wonderful by Erik. By her maestro.

_I'll Miss You (Mi Mancherai) _

_I'll miss you, if you go away  
I'll miss your serenity  
Your words like songs in the wind  
And Love, that you take away. _

_I'll miss you, if you go away  
Now and forever I don'know how to live  
And joy, my friend, goes away with you _

_I'll miss you, I'll miss you, because you go away  
Because the love in you is dead  
Because, because...  
Nothing it's gonna change, I know  
And inside of me I feel you _

_I'll miss you, I'll miss you, because you go away  
Because the love in you is dead  
Because, because...  
Nothing it's gonna change, I know  
And inside of me I feel you _

_I'll miss the immensity  
Of our days and nights,us together  
Your smiles when it's getting dark  
Your being naive like a little girl _

_I'll miss you, my love  
I look at myself and I find emptiness inside of me  
And joy, my friend, goes away with you..._

No, by God, she would not fail this man now. She would save him by any means necessary.

* * *

AN: Yay. I liked how this chapter ended. Stay tuned for a little divine intervention...and the beginning of her career at the Garnier... REVIEW 


	15. Save Me?

AN: Here we go, an extra long chapter to make up for my putting this on hold. I really was inspired to finish Paradise Lost (my 1st fanfic), and now that it's over, I have exams! EXAMS! But I risk life and GPA to get this to you, my wonderful reviewers and readers! I only hope you'll let me know what you think and continue to support my efforts!

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my sould (I can't ebay it, apparently)

* * *

Erik woke up, and knew something was different about today. He combed his hair without the need of a mirror. He pulled on an emerald colored silk vest over his white shirt and tied his black cravat. Before leaving his room, he touched the porcelain resting on his cheek. It was as firmly in place as ever.

Christine was at the dinner table, ready for him. She placed the tray of hot food on the table with a new kind of excitement. He took his time looking her over. Her hair wasn't in one of the kerchiefs she wore while cleaning. Instead it was rather prettily made up into a french braid. She wore a black victiorian style blouse and a gray skirt that went down to her knees. She squirmed slightly under his gaze in black calf length boots.

"It's your first day at the Garnier, I believe." Erik spoke as he picked up his teacup and broke eye contact. When he looked up again, Christine was still there, eager to tell him something.

_I..I'll be home in time to fix dinner. And I finished my chores this morning. If there's anything you need-_

"I can manage," he sighed, slight irritation creeping into his voice. "I'm not useless, you know."

_Yes, sir._ Oh, why did she look so downcast? Erik cursed his guilty reaction when hurting her sensitive feelings, and tried to restrain himself. He was only human, though, and not yet used to being this physically close to another person, much less a young girl.

"How are you going to the college?" His question seemed to surprise her, because she took just a few more seconds to answer.

_I'm going to take the bus. The stop's a little walk away._

"If you haven't noticed, Miss Daae, it's freezing outside. The walk would be very unpleasant." Then he pressed his palm on the table's edge, just feet from where she was standing, then removed it slowly. Christine stared at the car key. "It's the key to the old mustang out in the garage. It runs, I assure you." Why was he so uncomfortable at the way she looked just then? It made him warm, somehow...that brilliant smile.

_You're like a magician._ The words escaped her lips before she thought twice about it. At the widening of his eyes, though, she quickly pressed a hand to her mouth in mild horror. She cleared her throat and tried to compose herself. She took the key. _Thank you, sir. I'll be very careful._

"Yes." He murmured. "Please see that you are."

* * *

He watched her drive off from a window in the east wing. Ever since she'd arrived, he'd been uncomfortable. Now, that discomfort had become everyday and average, so much so that it had started to be...comfortable? This was ridiculous, and he knew it. He'd wanted her voice for his music but now that wasn't going to happen. So why was he looking at a girl fifteen years his junior?

No time for this kind of idle thought to bother him. There were things to do while Miss Daae was away. He moved to the music room, his cell phone dialing a well remembered number.

"Hello, Erik. I was wondering when you'd call." Nadir held the phone to his ear with one hand and sprayed his hothouse orchids with the bottle in the other. "You've been giving me more than enough free time to dabble in my new greenhouse."

"I was hoping you'd like the new place. Now I don't have to worry about keeping my name out of the papers, right?" Erik opened the door to his music room, and strode to where his composition sat waiting.

Nadir looked at his new home. Dark, lush gardens surrounded it, and his greenhouse was perfect for raising orchids. The last one had been nice, but this...this was perfect. Comfortable and still wild somehow. No, he'd take precautions to keep his whereabouts secret. "No, you don't have to worry."

"Good, then you'll have no problem coming over today."

Again, Nadir suppressed a sigh. Erik certainly didn't like wasting time. "Have you finished the general composite of your next production?"

"Well, I'm not inviting you over to plant begonias." Erik smirked as he finally heard Nadir release that sigh he'd been keeping in. Somehow he felt like amusing himself with his old friend. "I need to go over some things with you before you present this to the producers. I also need to give you the names of a few artists you need to call. The backdrops and costumes will be very different from what I've done before. Forgive me," his smirk disappeared, "what _you've_ done before."

He knew better than to correct, or attempt to make Erik take credit for his works. He set the spray bottle down and removed his gloves. "All right, I'll be over in a few hours."

"Good." With that, Erik hung up and placed his composition on the music staff. Gently he slipped the white mask free from his face. He set it beside the stand, and reached his gloved hand to touch _that _side of his face.

_This face, which earned a mother's fear..._

No, just as his gloved finger was about to touch that broken side, he pulled away. What was there inside, that wouldn't allow him to go there? Shame, anger, disgust--it all festered just beyond his touch. The most human reaction, and that's what pained him.

The people who had seen, and who had felt pain and disgust at his very presence...they were not anomalies. It had taken twenty years to make peace with that fact, but Erik had done it. Acceptance, with little moments of hatred and anger, was his.

Locked away in his sanctuary, he no longer strived for more than what he had. Music, creation, and hearth. Let Nadir be the handsome, exotic face to the composition, so long as the song was played. It was the only door he'd leave open for the world. Everything else was fettered away, and safe.

Without another moment's hesitation, he picked up his violin and began to play.

* * *

Christine had to reschedule her courses. When she'd applied, she'd been planning to study vocals. Now that was a pipe dream, and hoping foolishly would do nothing for her. She touched the lace choker strategically placed around her neck as she looked her schedule over. Although Madame Giry had encouraged her to pursue dance, Christine had been unable to turn away from music. Though she would be taking a minor in ballet, her main focus would now be piano and musical composition.

Unfortunately, that meant having an off schedule now. She'd be coming home earlier than she had let Erik know, and she only hoped this wouldn't irritate him further. This morning he'd looked so strange when she'd smiled. And...he never smiled back, really. Never laughed. And almost tried to be as unkind as he possibly could while maintaining civility.

_Where are those eyes from before...?_ It surprised her. Honestly, where was her Erik, from before?

_Forgotten._ She remembered. _Never mine, never accepted. Discarded._ No, her memories hadn't all returned, but the guilt of Christine De Chagny, Viscomtesse, could be felt. Back in time, when Erik had put on the mask of red death and come to her with those eyes, she had not been moved. She understood that.

Christine knew, as she sat and stared off instead of listening to the first lecture, that there was an immense pain to this man. It was just beneath the surface but hidden, and Christine might never be allowed to touch it.

_Then why is this all happening? If it's doomed to failure, why do I still..._

* * *

_

* * *

_

Nadir had let himself into the manor, and headed up the familiar steps to the music room. Already before he entered the room he was greeted with new and wonderful music. Erik was composing, and might have forgotten the meeting altogether. But the Persian man hadn't come all this way to be ignored. He knocked loudly, and the music paused.

"Wait, a moment!" Erik called from behind the door, and Nadir knew what he was doing. That damned mask was a hindrance, yet he treated it like a support!

"For God's sake, Erik-"

"Enter!" His imperial tone had returned, and Nadir knew he would not be able to bring it up again. He opened the door and saw Erik already pulling out books of what he imagined were sketches and music. It was going to be a long visit. Nadir sat in one of the armchairs and waited.

"Well, Erik, have you gotten your new project ironed out?"

His response was an open book thrust in front of him. _The Story of Medea_. "Yes, it's a play. It's been done."

"Not my way, it hasn't," Erik replied, sitting in the chair next to him. "I want to make this a play about the descent of beauty into madness. This woman, for the sake of keeping her love, is willing to do the most hideous things. There has to be a sort of admiration for that kind of creature."

* * *

Christine dreamed again. It must have been a dream, because she was not in class anymore. She was in that endless white space again, and that frighteningly powerful creature stood before her.

"_You question your decision now?_" He said in slow, deliberate tones. He wore the hood of his cloak, as always, to cover his face. "_Pathetic._"

Christine shook her head. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but shut it quickly. Her voice wasn't there. It was gone.

"_You despair at the bits of memory you retain, the weight of those old emotions. Because, in spite of the time gone by, you are still only a young woman._" He spoke as if he could hear her every thought, and so Christine only nodded dumbly. There could be no secrets between them. "_This is part of the pain of such a contract. To remember the hurt you inflict, and feel your past failures._"

How to keep it from tearing her appart inside? How to live like a normal creature, with this weight on her? More importantly, how could she help him like this? The questions were ready to be spoken, but unable to fly. Christine covered her face with her hands in frustration.

"_As you can._" He responded with that beautiful, emotionless voice. "_You are only Christine Daae. Not an angel, not a savior. Only a human woman, with only so much time. Do as you can, and he must do the rest._"

And then the unthinkable. The being's hands, which had only been painful so far, touched the top of her head. Like a father. And she felt such a sense of comfort at that touch. "_You are not your past. If you let it anchor you down, you will fail._"

WHACK!

The sound of a textbook falling from her desk to the floor was enough to startle her, and end the moment. Christine looked around her, hoping she hadn't been caught. Fortunately, it was a large class, and only the girl next to her turned to smile and hand her book to her.

When class was dismissed, it was this same girl who found her walking down the hallway. She smiled broadly at Christine. Her short black hair and almond eyes were very charming, and her persona was pixie-like.

"You get a little sleepy in class?" The girl asked, turning a corner along with her. Christine could only shyly nod her head. "Yeah, it seems like it'll be a bit dull. But I'm looking forward to the performance workshop."

At this Christine flashed a brilliant smile. This girl was taking the same classes!

"Oh, are you in the same class?" She asked intuitively, to which Christine nodded her head. "Well, that's great! I'm Cynthia, but my stage name's Vienna."

Christine had been prepared for this, and tapped her throat once. Then slowly she mouthed the word.

_Christine._

* * *

Hours were passing as if they were only minutes, as Erik drilled the specifics of what he was planning to do. And this was Nadir's job- to memorize, down to Erik's tiniest detail, and present it exactly as he had to the backers and the costumers and the designers and the cast. Really, Erik wasn't paying him enough for this. It was not a job for only one person.

"Do you understand the story, as I want to develop it? My music?" Erik watched him intently for his reaction. Nadir nodded his head.

"It's not exactly going along with the original play-"

"That is artistic license," Erik rebuffed. "This is not an original, merely an adaptation. But it will be my world, not the one of the Greeks, that Medea inhabits. A world where darkness is both terrifying and wonderful." He smirked, showing Nadir more pages. "And I'd like you to understand that before meeting with the others."

Nadir rubbed his brow and sighed. "We've been at this a while, haven't we?" He tapped a finger over one of the books of sketches Erik had handed him. "Let's have some lunch and then pick this up again."

At this Erik checked his watch. "Nadir, it's three o'clock. Would you spoil your dinner and eat now?"

"If you still take dinner at 8, then yes." Nadir stood and gave his back a little stretch. "Do you have anything in the pantry, Erik?" Nadir saw Erik shrug and pick up more books to bring to the table. "How can you not know? You're not starving yourself, are you?"

"Miss Daae takes care of the shopping and cooking now, I don't-"

"A housekeeper?" Nadir couldn't hide the shock in his voice. "A _female _housekeeper?"

Erik lifted a hand to quiet his friend. "Madame Giry insisted I needed the help. Perhaps she was right...my composition has been _inspired_ recently. And Miss Daae is not a large nuisance. She tries to keep out of my way, at least."

"Yes, but Erik...," Nadir wasn't sure how to put it delicately, "the last...the hired man-"

"Do not mention _that name_! She is nothing like him!" The eyes behind the mask flashed dangerously, warning Nadir to drop the subject. And Nadir had. That look commanded obedience. Erik was calmed slowly by the silence that descended between them. "She would not leave the pantry empty. Go and see what you'll have."

"Would you like-"

"No, no." Erik murmured, flexing his hand absently. "I'm not hungry."

Making almost no noise, Nadir left to find something in the kitchen.

* * *

Christine had returned home to find another's footprints in the snow by the manor. In alarm she looked up to peer into the windows, but the drapes were closed as always. Erik, she had quickly learned, would not stand to have them opened. All light in the house was artificial.

Slowly she opened the main door and let herself in. Christine began to remove her coat and scarf when she heard a noise from the kitchen. Erik had never snacked before, never even found it necessary to venture into his own kitchen in her presence. So, she was curious. She set her coat and scarf on the rack by the door and crept quietly to the swinging door of the kitchen.

Peering inside, she nearly gasped out loud. There was a stranger in the house! And he appeared to be rummaging through the drawers. A thief? He was a handsome older man, with well tanned skin and neatly groomed hair...but what was he doing here? Panic seized her, and all logic went out the window. Clearly, he had to be a thief. Otherwise, he'd have no business in the pantry.

_And where is Erik?_ That question set her into further worry. No sounds. The manor was dead quiet. _Dead_. The word made her head spin. The man really was ransacking the house, meaning Erik must be in trouble. But what could she do? If she were to find a phone and call, what could she, a mute girl, say?

No, she had to take care of this. She had secure this man and find Erik. But what weapon could she find for herself? She looked around the pantry for something, anything, heavy or blunt. And then she saw it.

Nadir turned just in time to see a young girl charge at him, a sack of flour in her hands.

* * *

Erik had been contemplating picking up the violin again to entertain himself while his friend ate, when he heard Nadir's loud cry carrying through the hall. In a flash he ran out of the music room and down the stairs.

And the sound carried from the kitchen. But what could the man have possibly encountered there?

"What happened? What was-" And he stopped cold.

Nadir was sitting on the floor, covered in fine white dust. _Probably flour_, Erik realized. And, holding the rest of the sack in her hands, was Christine Daae. She looked beyond terrified, but when she saw him there was...relief?

_You're safe._ The words had slipped from her mouth before she realized it, but he'd been able to read her lips. His eyes widened and turned away. He understood exactly what had happened.

"Nadir, this is my housekeeper, Miss Daae." He gestured to her. "Miss Daae, this is my associate, Nadir Khan." The flour sack dropped to the floor, as did her eyes.

Nadir's laughter was the only thing that broke the silence. He stood, dusting himself off. "I'm afraid, Miss Daae, that you've made a bit of a mess to clean." His eyes held no anger, only mirth. He was sure he'd like this strange girl.

Christine nodded and went to the drawer to pick up a clean dishrag and helped him remove the rest of the flour. Not once did she raise her eyes to either man again, her embarrassment too great.

"Miss Daae, if you would meet me in the dining room for a moment." It was not a request, but rather a command. He left the room with a nod to Nadir, expecting her to follow. She finished cleaning off the flour and went, leaving an amused but bewildered Nadir to try to piece together the nature of her character.

* * *

Christine would not look at him, even though she could feel him there. Was he angry? Clearly, she'd just assaulted Nadir Khan, his friend! But what to expect from this? What punishment was fitting? Would she be fired?

But a sound so light as to nearly be a figment of her imagination was heard. A low rumble. A chuckle.

_Erik?_

"Miss Daae." The mirth was gone, but the tone wasn't harsh. "Miss Daae, please look at me."

Why did that request, when he said it so gently, become almost painful to hear? Slowly she brought her head up, eyes ready to match his. And she was still afraid. He was only a foot away from her, looking at her intently.

_I am-_

His gloved hand touched the top of her chestnut locks, and she froze. Unbelieving eyes trained on him.

"Thank you for attempting to defend my home." He smiled a little. "For trying to rescue..."

And just like that he pulled away. Her eyes, and that touch had been too much. He turned to go back to his music room.

"Nadir will be staying for supper. Be sure to clean the mess in the kitchen." With that, he was gone.

Christine touched the top of her head tentatively, and remembered what she had dreamed.

_"Do as you can."_

Perhaps today, she'd made him laugh.

* * *

AN: REVIEW and get me through these tough times! I need to study...and yet I write...not a good sign!


	16. Christine

AN: Been a while, hasn't it? Between my upcoming finals, getting hideously sick, and working on research, I've had very little time for my writing. Still...here it is! I hope you all enjoy it, and leave me a review to inspire me to find time to keep going. I'm going to need a little inspiration soon.

Disclaimer: I own nothing! The only payment I ask for are reviews, for goodness' sake!

* * *

Christine had, after taking a moment to gather herself up again, entered the kitchen intent on apologizing and cleaning. To her surprise, the good humored Nadir was already sweeping the leftover flour into a dustpan. He looked up with a smile as he heard her approach. 

"Guess I should never try to get the drop on you, eh?" He laughed as Christine made a quick sign in apology. As he'd figured when she'd been so quiet, it hadn't been the cat that had her tongue. She was mute.

_No wonder Erik's kept her around._ He watched her as she fished out a pad of paper and a pen from a little apron hung beside the door. She began to scribble, and handed him the slip.

_Really sorry. Thought Mr. Destler was in trouble._

Perhaps he liked her more for thinking that way, but he couldn't find a reason to be angry. Instead he gestured at the pantry. "I was a bit hungry and thought I'd find something..." Again, he saw her scribble furiously.

_Will you stay for dinner? I'll fix anything you like._

He definitely liked her.

* * *

Making dinner, thankfully, was not as exciting for Christine as coming home had been. Nadir's requests for dinner had been easy enough to follow, after a quick trip to the market. And the time she spent cooking gave her mind the freedom to rewind the first day of class. 

Vienna was so sweet, and judging by the way she spoke, her voice was good. No doubt a high alto. And in the last class, music composition, both had been so excited about the possibility of working together on a piece. Really, it hadn't been so bad. She could do it. She'd finish a major in music composition. It could be done, with or without her voice to guide her.

But that hadn't been all. Somehow in the span of a day the weight of her worries had begun to grow lighter. She could be normal. She could help him. With the touch of an angel to her head, she felt relieved. Erik's hand hadn't been harsh, and neither was his voice. No reprimand, no real anger or frustration. He'd been...kind.

* * *

Nadir and Erik sat down to dinner promptly at eight, after Erik had spent hours drilling more details into his poor friend's addled brain. And even afterwards, Erik still felt compelled to question, and make certain Nadir had listened. 

"The scenery. Backgrounds-"

"You're looking for a minimalist design," Nadir sighed, repeating in near monotone what Erik had said earlier. "You've set up an appointment for me with the set designer, haven't you?"

"Thursday, you're doing lunch at the bistro." Erik replied, folding his napkin. "He's the quiet sort, I hear, which means that you'll have to do most of the directing in that conversation." He looked up at Nadir. "And when you say minimalist-"

"I mean keeping everything on the stage to a minimum, especially within the first act." He rolled his eyes as he tapped his fingers on the table. "Keep the focus on the actors and what they're saying. "Good God, man, we've been over this!"

"But I worry you're not grasping-"

At that moment the kitchen door swung open, and Nadir had never seen a more welcome sight. Christine bussed in a wheeled tray with hot rolls and the lobster bisque he was so particularly fond of. It steamed deliciously as she ladled it into Erik's bowl first, then his own.

"Miss Daae, this looks wonderful," Nadir smiled appreciatively at her, causing her to blush and return the grin. She nodded her head as she set the roles and bottle of red wine on the table. Then she turned to Erik. Nadir watched curiously as she moved her lips, but made no sound.

"No, it's fine. Go and have your dinner." Erik picked up his spoon as Christine nodded and walked away. Nadir frowned and turned on his host.

"Where is she going?" Nadir asked as Erik began to uncork the wine.

"To eat. I imagine it's her hour for supper, too." With a pop the cork was out, and Erik began to pour Nadir a glass.

"You mean she doesn't eat here?" Nadir looked at the long, solitary dining room table incredulously. Erik really ate by himself here? Even Nadir felt it uncomfortable.

Erik was quiet a moment, really considering his question. "She's not a guest, Daroga. And she has no problem eating alone."

"And you? Do you honestly enjoy these lonely meals?" Nadir still could not grasp the fact that Erik had built up this wall against the only company he had. "Really, Erik, this isn't some Victorian novel. I think it would be fine if you had Miss Daae sit at your table for meals."

"Nadir, I do not think-" Erik had begun his chastisement too late. His eyes widened as he saw Nadir stand and go into the kitchen. That shock only amassed further when he returned, this time gripping Christine by the shoulders gently. He walked her to the seat next to him and eased her into it.

"There we are, my dear." Nadir smiled as he took another bowl from the tray and filled it with hot soup. "No one's crowding this table, are they?"

Christine could only look from the jovial Persian to Erik. Even as Nadir sat back down to his meal, Christine would not pick up her spoon. She watched Erik, unable to look away. She couldn't even move her lips in her horror. What would Erik do?

He watched her only a moment longer before beginning to eat as well. He took a bite of his roll and chewed carefully. When he still felt her eyes watching him in dumb amazement, he swallowed and picked up his glass. "It's going to get cold," he said a little gruffly.

Nadir only smiled a little, an act of self-control that he found admirable, as he heard Erik speak and Christine pick up her spoon with a little clatter.

_Nervous, I imagine_.

Well, at least he'd found a way to keep shop talk out of dinner.

* * *

As their silent, awkward dinner wound down, and Christine began to clear the table, Nadir smirked. Erik's scowl only began to show when Christine went into the kitchen. At times, Erik really could be amusing. 

"Was that really so bad?" Nadir asked innocently. Erik narrowed his eyes from behind the mask and stood. He could feel the irritation radiate from him as he waited for Nadir to follow suit. When Christine returned for the rest of the things, Nadir took her hand gently and smiled. "That was a wonderful meal, Miss." A thought crossed his mind. A very devilish one. "Would you, perhaps, mind if I called you Christine?"

To this the surprised Christine could only shake her head, a friendly smile on her lips.

_Of course not_, she moved her lips slowly so that Nadir might understand. If she'd bothered a glance up at Erik, though, she might have noticed a rather dark look in his eyes.

"Lovely meal then, Christine." Nadir nodded his head, then turned to Erik. He was fairly sure he was in for something once they were alone again. "Well, shall we, Erik?"

"Yes." Erik's one word was spoken in such a quiet tone, but Nadir almost winced at the sound. Erik said no more, and didn't bother to look at Christine as he moved from the dining room to his music room upstairs.

"My visits often leave him a bit undone, Christine," Nadir explained quietly. "Bring him up a little cocoa, later on, and he'll be his usual charming self."

Christine wondered if the man was teasing her or actually meant that. Elusive, mysterious men seemed to gravitate towards each other.

* * *

"Charming girl, really." Nadir offered this little opinion to the silent wall that was currently Erik. Rather than play an example on the piano or go back to his instructions, Erik simply flipped through his books with a controlled anger. "I'll admit, when you said you'd gotten someone to tend to the house, I was worried. But Christine's a peach." 

The sound of a book shutting quickly actually seemed to echo. "Well, _Miss Daae_ is a capable person. She handles the chores well enough."

"You know..." Nadir mused carefully, "...you could just call her Christine."

"She's a child, Nadir, and not my friend. I'm her employer." The way he'd tensed up, Nadir was sure he'd hit the right nerve.

"Well, have a few meals with the girl and that'll likely change." He smirked. "She charged me with a sack of flour, and I'm like to start calling her an angel."

Though Erik shot him a glare, he seemed to have cooled off. He put a log in the fireplace and lit it. "Leave it be, Nadir." He sounded tired, but the warning rang true. With a sigh, Nadir picked up his coat from the armchair.

"All right, go about it in your bull-headed way. But I've got to call it a night. You'll really get no more out of me today." Still, he crossed the room and placed a hand on Erik's shoulder. "She's a good girl. Really seems like she's trying to work out for you." And with that, Nadir left his stony friend to his comfortable loneliness and the growing fire.

* * *

It had been a long day, and the night was just going to prove cold and full of thoughts he didn't want to have. Erik sat in is armchair, staring into the glowing fire. And every so often, he really rued the fact that he'd saved Nadir from further assault by Christine. 

_Christine_. As if they were friends. And Nadir's insinuation that she was trying to be friendly...absurd. She was a busy girl. Between her chores, the visits to the hospital, and school, she had no time to spare trying to better know her employer.

_Then why was she so worried?_ She'd actually run into a fight in her panic, and been so relieved to see him well. That startled him. And then there were those eyes. The light in her eyes was strange, but not repellant. For a few brief moments, he'd seen something in her looks. Not something he could recognize, but it felt warm and unafraid. If he could only name it, Erik was sure it would open another world to him.

_No, it's not anything. Nothing at all. I--_

The soft knock on his door interrupted his thoughts. Had Nadir returned to bother him some more? "Come in."

Christine heard his rather irate voice and bit her lip. She turned the knob and stepped into his music room, tray in hand. It was so dim, everything lit only by the fire's glow. He hadn't turned from his chair and his place before the fire, so she moved to him. She passed slowly, and paused to look at the music sheets on the piano.

_Inside the labyrinth walls_

_there lies a tiny child who sleeps alone..._

She _knew_ this. Not the words, but the feelings behind it...

"Miss Daae?" His voice caused her to look up with a guilty expression. She'd been glancing at his work, and was sure he wouldn't approve. The frown on his face suggested the same.

She held out the tray, the large cup of hot chocolate steaming in front of her.

_It's going to be a cold night,_ she explained, _hot peppermint cocoa._ He didn't move to take it. He didn't move at all. But the frown wasn't there anymore. _I'll just leave it here._ She placed the hot drink on the little table and gave him a little smile. _Good night, sir._ Quickly she moved out the door and was gone before Erik could say a word.

Erik looked at the cup, a calm look on his face.

_Nothing at all..._

He picked up the cup.

* * *

It haunted her in her sleep. Those words. Who was it in the labyrinth? A child, sleeping with no one there for comfort. There was no image in her mind, but the words struck something deep inside. Even as she readied the breakfast tray, it hadn't quite left her yet. It was the strangest sensation that she felt. 

She opened the kitchen door and set down the hot cinnamon rolls and butter on the table. She was just about to go back into the kitchen for some milk for Erik's tea when she heard him coming.

He sat down quietly, folding his napkin into his lap. He looked up and she smiled.

_Good morning, sir._

"Good morning." Erik returned the greeting, and Christine moved away to the kitchen. "Have you eaten?"

That stopped her. She turned, a questioning look on her face. _No, sir._

"Then sit down to breakfast. You've made enough for two, haven't you...Christine?" He poured out tea in a cup, and set it closer to her. Her smile nearly glowed.

_Yes, sir._

* * *

AN: Yay, bit of the awkward funny, and a little change for them. PLEASE REVIEW! It's the reviews that keep me going! 


	17. I Have

AN: Sorry for the delay, but term papers, finals, research, and my spiraling life have kept me busy! Hope I've not offended or caused anyone to give up on the story, though, because I'm not done yet. Here, for you all, is a little bit of progress. REVIEW and I'll know you're still here and watching!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, isn't that obvious by now?

* * *

After that, the winter snow began to melt. It wasn't noticeable at first, promising a slow beginning to something new, but there were signs for those who looked hard enough. For those who looked forward to the coming of spring. The first blade of grass began to poke through the frost in the garden, gasping for life. The frozen pond dripped water, a metronome to keep the seasons' time.

And, just for a little while, Christine opened the curtain to see the sun reflect the glittering, watery white landscape. Only hours later Erik did the same.

_Spring's coming._ Christne observed as she set out the morning's meal. She smiled as she sat down and folded her napkin in her lap, waiting for him to speak. Erik nodded his head in response.

"The garden will need tending. A few new flowers, weeding..." Then, in a softer voice, he added, "you're welcome to fix it as you'd like." If he wanted to make her smile widen, he succeeded. She nodded her head vigorously.

_I'd love to see roses in the garden, in bloom._ Roses, she remembered them, but from what? Perhaps in a dream...

"There are rosebushes already hedging the garden," he explained, pouring the tea and offering her a cup.

_What color?_ She nodded her head in thanks and took the cup.

"White tea hybrids." Erik turned back to his tea, but his eyes were elsewhere. The white flowers were the remnants of the past, and he'd all but fogotten them in winter. Now she'd reminded him, and he had to suppress the thoughts threatening to spill over.

_'White roses mean silence.'_ Oh, he'd learned that well. But, though she was mute, Christine had not. She spoke, every time she smiled or frowned or reached for a teacup with her delicate hands, she spoke to him. Why he caught this thought and held it alone as the past whirled by, he couldn't say.

"I'll leave finding a suitable gardener to you, then." Then, he quickly added, "just temporary, to plant the new flowers."

_Yes, sir._ Already it was clear to see she had ideas of what she'd do to the space. Her eyes seemed to dance with the light of a childish kind of happiness. _Thank you, sir._

For the first time in his life, he wanted to see spring.

* * *

"Daroga, what the hell are you doing here?" His question was without elegance or tact, surprise stealing such grace from him. He'd only come downstairs for a drink, and there Nadir was with Christine. They'd pulled open the lush red drapes, and looked out at the clearing garden.

Christine turned and flashed her smile at Erik.

_Good afternoon, sir. _She tugged the drapes back to their original place before turning back to him. _Did you need something, sir?_

"No, I was only down for something to drink," he spoke softly to her, then pointed a finger casually at Nadir. "You still haven't answered my question." Though it was obvious whom he spoke to, Erik kept his eyes on Christine, just in case she wanted to speak. Nadir noticed this with something like amazement, but kept silent as they interacted.

_I'll prepare some tea for you. _She thought for a moment, furrowing her brow slightly. _It's late afternoon, but you prefer earl grey-_

"Yes, thank you. Nadir and I will take it in my music room." In one grand sweep he was in command."Nadir, if you'd be so kind, now that I have you here already? There are a few new developments to the show..."

Christine nodded her head to Erik and turned to sign _thank you_ to Nadir. Nadir, having spent a little time with her, only shook his head.

"No need to, Christine. It was entirely me pleasure." He smiled. "But a cup of tea would be wonderful." Immediately she dashed away to prepare the tea, leaving Nadir with a slightly annoyed Erik. He turned, and followed him to the music room.

* * *

"What was entirely your pleasure?"

Nadir sighed. He wondered how long it would be before Erik would raise the question. He smirked. "Why, spending time with a lovely young lady. Even you have to have noticed she's excellent company. Smart, cheerful, very pretty-"

A series of chords being struck ended his list of her qualities. He tried not to roll his eyes slightly as he saw Erik hunched over the piano in mock-devotion. After years of watching him play and perfect his craft, didn't Erik know Nadir could tell when he was being serious and when he was trying to avoid life? There was a difference, a subtle difference, between master musician and frightened child.

"Erik, she seems much happier here." He commented lightly, moving to inspect the score. He turned a page, not even looking at the notes.

"Daroga?"

"Yes, Erik?"

"You can't read music," he commented wryly. He looked up as Nadir handed him the sheets sheepishly. It seems they both knew each other's quirks.

"I told her I liked gardening," Nadir explained as he took a seat in an armchair. "She wanted to discuss the garden plans with me."

"I'm going to be seeing more of you, then."

"Please, hold your enthusiasm," he laughed at Erik's slight grimace. "She only wants my opinon on the matter. I'll be taking her to the nursery where I bought most of my greenhouse plants tomorrow, and then I'll wash my hands of the matter."

"No," Erik eased himself back and looked at Nadir. "You enjoy the work, and she enjoys the extra company. And if I leave the garden to her, she could fill it with those garishly bright poppies or some such thing. I'll trust you to sway her from that."

Nadir observed his friend as he set to quickly jotting notes on the sheet music. No, Christine wasn't like other girls. She hadn't started rambling about her favorite flowers or making grand alterations to the garden. Instead, she'd pulled open the drapes and showed him the thawing ground.

_What sort of flowers does Mr. Destler like?_ She'd written in a note she handed him. _Colors? Is there anything he wouldn't want touched?_

And he'd told her, only the white roses. Leave those alone. Not too bright, but soft colors will do. And she'd been so thankful when he'd offered to take her to the shop...

_knock knock. _Christine stood in the doorway, tea tray in hand and a smile on her face. Seeing Erik was at the piano, she moved and set the tea on the little table and mouthed words he couldn't read to Erik.

"Yes, thank you, Christine." Erik nodded his head. "I'll take it from the table in just a moment."

Christine only poured some honey and set a lemon wedge on the cup's saucer and turned expectantly to Nadir.

"Ah, same, thanks." He watched her serve his tea, and held it out to him. As he reached to take it, however, he heard it. Erik's music. Time stood still for that sound.

Christine's hand stilled, her head turned to see his back as he played. His playing was a steady metronome of notes, yet it was so...macabre. It had to be for the new production.

_Inside the labyrinth walls,_

_there lies a tiny child who sleeps alone..._

With a tiny shake of her head, she managed to loosen herself from the music's spell, just long enough to hand off the tea and turn to the piano. Her eyes craned to see more of the music sheet, while her ears caught the swift movement of the melody.

She saw it.

_for it's my thoughts that bind me here_

And, just beyond that, crossed out,

_...that I most fear_

Thoughts that held you down, made you afraid to step outside yourself. Why was that so familiar? Everything in those words..._resonated_ somewhere inside Christine. She was so taken with the notes that she didn't notice Nadir as he watched in a daze, and how his cup slipped off the table as he tried to set it down. The searing heat of the tea as it splashed against her leg was the only thing to break the spell of Erik's playing.

Her hoarse cry of pain quickly followed the sound of the cup breaking cleanly in two. Immediately the playing stopped, and Erik stood to see Christine crouching down on the floor, grasping her leg. Nadir, meanwhile, was swearing in his native tongue and pulling out a kerchief hastily from his pocket.

"Oh, Christine, I'm so-" Nadir spoke quickly as her pressed it to her leg. Christine winced but tried not to make a sound as the older man tried to help her. But it was so painful...

Erik grasped at his wrist gently, causing Nadir to pull away the cloth. "Don't touch her." His voice held no malice, almost no authority. It was...soft, and that alone made Nadir do as he asked.

Christine looked up, eyes watering, as he bent on one knee and looked at her injured leg. It was quickly becoming red and inflamed, but he never touched it. His eyes observed, mouth frowning ever so slightly.

"In the bath attached to my study, Nadir. Go get my kit and soft cloth from there, bring them to her room." Without needing to repeat himself, Nadir had dashed out. Erik held his hand out to her. "Come, Christine."

His voice was kind, and she took his hand and stood, only to muffle her sound of discomfort as the pain increased. She looked up at him, as the first of her tears began to fall.

_I'm sorry, sir._

With a swift motion, he swept her up. She was in his arms, too much in shock to act in protest. He looked down at her for just a moment, and his crystal eyes searched her tearful ones. Then he started down to her room, eyes focused on the task at hand.

"Don't be afraid, Christine," Erik said as he walked. "I've got you."

Her eyes seemed to water anew at his words, but she lowered her head into his shirt so he would not see.

_Yes...you do._

_

* * *

_

It was an hour later, when Erik had laid her down on her bed and rinsed her leg and placed a soothing balm and soft bandage over the burn, that she watched him as he put away his things in his kit. Nadir just smiled weakly at her.

Christine shook her head at Nadir, before he could offer another apology. Her hand crept to her nightstand, and she removed her pen and pad. She scribbled quickly, and handed it to him.

_I wasn't paying attention, either. The music was too wonderful._

And he understood exactly what she meant. This was Erik at his finest, creating something out of nothing, music out of silence. It humbled and delivered all at the same time. If she could understand that, then she really was suited for this house.

"Still, I apologize, Christine. I don't even know if we'll be able to go to the florist tomorrow."

At her crestfallen expression, Erik sighed and tried to contain his annoyance. He really couldn't stand to watch her frown like that. "She's got the slightest irritation, Daroga, and the balm will improve it quickly. You haven't caused irreperable harm with your carelessness." He caught his friend's eye. "Take her to see the blasted flowers tomorrow and let the matter drop."

He resumed his stoic and cool demeanor, but Nadir nodded and hid his smile. Erik had been so caring, and about something other than music. That was reason enough to feel a little less guilty about the incident.

They both watched as Christine stood and headed for the door. The bandage restricted her movement the slightest bit, and she was only able to take a few steps when Erik's clear voice cut her trip short.

"And where do you think you're going?" Erik observed her with shrewd eyes. She turned meekly, biting her lip a bit.

_I have to start dinner, sir._

"Leave dinner to me and Erik," Nadir replied, taking her by the shoulders and easing her back to her bed. "You stay off of that leg for a bit, keep applying that balm, and rest."

Christine looked cautiously towards Erik, unsure of Nadir's offer. It was Erik who was the master here, after all, and she knew how much a schedule meant to him. If she didn't start dinner soon, it'd be late.

"Stay there, Christine. I'll bring something for you later." Erik looked at her in such a way, she could only nod her head. "Well, come on, Nadir, you're the one who offered." Erik trailed off as he left the room.

* * *

Christine lay sleeping on her bed when Erik stepped into the room, a few hours later, with a tray of warm food for her. He set it down on the chair beside the bed, and really meant to leave it at that. But he looked at her, for just a second, and he was stuck.

Brown hair. Curls. Pale skin. Brown eyes closed by sleep. It was a common description-- brown and pale milk skin. And, perhaps for the first time, he noticed how pink her lips were in comparison. He'd never noticed she had a woman's lips, this mute housekeeper of his, even when he had to read them. A mouth, a person had, to speak with. To eat with. But lips...

_No, don't think like that. _

But he couldn't pull away. The thought never entered his mind, in that moment he watched her sleeping. Instead, he pulled the comforter over her, to protect from the chill that would soon come. When he finally moved to the door, that very moment, somewhere inside, a truth began to form.

_It's this...that I most fear... _

_

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AN: Thank you for reading to the end of this chapter! I'm so thankful you did. I hope the wait was worth it, and that you'll REVIEW to motivate me to update faster and even better chapters!_  
_


	18. The Rose

AN: Well, I gave it my very best, and I hope you'll enjoy this installment! Please review and let me know you're still up for reading a bit of my story, and I'll be eternally grateful. You have no idea how happy I am to see reviews on my works!

Disclaimer: If I own anything, it's myself.

* * *

Yellows like egg yolks, yellows like faded wallpaper. Golden orange like tropical sunsets, like freshly tanned leather. Pink like a girl's first blush, like the most tender wish she'd ever made. Christine looked at all the colors, drinking them in like the sweetest tea, and Nadir watched her as he spoke to the shopkeeper. To him, she appeared like a more grown up Alice, discovering the magic of an English garden.

Christine had moved up and down the place, inspecting covering moss and lilac with equal interest, before making any choices. And always, always, she would turn to Nadir and place her hand under the leaf or blossom of what she'd selected and look up to him for final say.

_This one?_

And he'd happily supply her with a name, and an idea of whether it would fit the garden. One kind demanded too much sun, and easily died in frost. One would burn under too much summer heat. Still, for the most part, her choices were ideal. Creeping vines of morning glories for the eastern trellis by the work shed. A patch of sweet pea for the little vegetable garden. Simple, sweet, fragrant beauty-- that was her style, or rather, what she was certain would appeal to Erik. His ideas that she'd buy out all of the poppies and sunflowers was unfounded, Nadir smirked as she stood and cleaned her hands.

"Shall we go into the rose garden, Christine?" It was strange, Nadir mused. He was only twenty years older than she was, and of a different heritage altogether, but he was as fond of her as he might have been his own child. In fact, he felt a certain fatherly pride in their shared interest in gardens.

_Yes, thank you_, she motioned with her hands. Nadir had spoken with her long enough to know that much, and opened the glass door leading to the gardens, and watched as she took in a deep breath of the rose scented air.

* * *

This was beauty. Among the rows of carefully pruned flowers, roses grew up above the thorns. Roses began to bud and push for the blue sky above, and she could see the beginnings of their colors in slits between the sepals.

_White roses._ She wrote it down on her pad, and handed it to him. Nadir nodded his head.

"That's right, white roses hedge the whole of the garden." He looked over the roses, looking at the pictures on the tags attached. One, for example, promised almost violet-colored buds in warmer weather. "The bushes are full and very lush." At the memory of _that_ time, he shook his head. "They've been well cared for, more than some people are in their whole lives." Clearing his throat, he let his eyes wander to the many rows, no longer looking at any one in particular. "He wouldn't want them disturbed."

Christine looked up to Nadir, then across the span of the garden. She bit her lip, considering this. Erik would not have the white roses touched, he had told her that much himself. As such, adding more to the already carefully planned landscape would be inappropriate and jarring. Where would she have them put? Only a bit of the garden had needed to be filled with new life, and none of it was big enough for roses to really thrive.

_Still...those aren't right._ She walked down the rows deep in thought, and her eye spotted the tag of a white rose. The bloom was large, and fragrant, but it didn't seem right for_ Erik_. White was not the right color, not at all. The garden had been covered in white for far too long, and she was sure he needed to change that. White, cold white, wasn't the right color for someone living in this world.

"The snow's melting," Nadir mused behind her. "The nursery will make the delivery what you've bought. I think it's enough, don't you? Erik tends to dislike clutter and the overly ornate." Still he caught her disappointed look, and like a doting parent, he amended this. "Have you given any thought to fresh-cut roses?"

* * *

The mail had been delivered, by Nadir's too-enthusiastic hands, before he and Christine had gone to turn his garden into an African jungle. After another cup of tea, and an hour of practice on the piano, he felt his mind begin to wander. With a sigh he stood and looked over his packages. The largest was the violin bow and rosin he'd had crafted for him to suit his specifications. One that balanced better in his grasp, and accepted the pressure of his playing without yielding.

A smaller, but more importantly marked package caught his attention.

_From Mr. Fermin, Garnier College of the Arts_

He quirked an eyebrow, and opened the brown wrapping deftly. A letter and compact disk came sliding out easily. He took a look at the disc, watching how the light refracted as he turned it over, before reading the note attached.

_Esteemed Mr. Dessler,_

_Again, we thank you for the excellent contributions you've made towards our fine institution. It is because of your..._

He skipped ahead, past these saccharin and hackneyed phrases. It seemed that was all this letter's purpose held, until he saw one name:

_Ms. Christine Daae has...an unfortunate accident._

Yes, he knew that! He set down the disc and took the note with both hands, a bit more interested now.

_However, as you had earlier requested, we have kept an eye on her progression during her first months. Though her original intent in majoring in voice and performance, sadly, cannot be fulfilled, we think she's made remarkable progress in both the composition and dance programs. No doubt she'll be an invaluable asset in the future, as made evident in the DVD we took the liberty of preparing for you._

So _that_ was what the blasted thing held. Erik looked it over once more, but moved to another room. He pulled open his entertainment system, and inserted the disc into the DVD player. Sitting on one of the more comfortable armchairs he had, he waited for the disc to start playing. Some snippets, no doubt, but he might as well look over it. The school's deans must have taken pains to make it.

There was no one, central camera. Instead, it was black and white, and apparently pulled from some smaller cameras. Security, perhaps. The first image was of the grand piano he'd given the music department, and one of the older teachers was having students come up to demonstrate so he might rank them in the class.

_"Miss...Christina Day?"_ The professor read from a roster, and Erik fought the urge to roll his eyes. Really, was it so difficult for people to pronounce foreign names? Daae. He'd said it enough times. And Christine? Wasn't that simple enough?

She rose from her position with the rest of her small class and sat on the bench of the piano. She looked from the keys, then up to the professor in question. She moved her mouth a little, but Erik could not read it. Apparently, neither could the professor.

_"Just play, Miss."_ He hadn't even looked up from his papers, ready to jot down what he noticed as she played, before she even began. Erik took note of his arrogance, and his lack of forethought. How one sat at the instrument, how the music was approached, was just as important as the notes. She took an obvious breath, and settled her fingers over the keys.

His ears could scarcely hear the melody, but it was a pure, clear sound. It wasn't exactly classical, but he was certain that's not where her mind would go when under pressure. Instead, she played a challenging piece by Yann Tiersen, _Comptine d'un autre ete._ It took both hands, working separately, to make the melody a success. One sustained the basic melody, the other elaborated with quick touches to the keys. It was a lively tune, and it quirked the corners of his mouth to hear it.

It shifted without transition to another class. A girl her age shared the piano with her, smiling and pointing to lines on the music sheet Christine was busily scribbling on. She laughed her soundless laugh, and nodded her head, playing a bar to hear the sound. Both nodded their heads in synch. Behind them, a different professor looked at their collaboration and really smiled approvingly.

"Excellent, Miss Daae. You have a knack for this part of the process." This earned her a little sweet ribbing from her friend, and Christine grew red at such praise. Her hand lifted to her lips in the correct hand sign.

_Thank you._

Erik observed, and it wasn't false praise. She played well enough, and a few years from now who knew? She could be playing her own concerts, or working on scores of her own. He tapped the folded letter on his knee in time with her playing. An invaluable asset...yes, he was beginning to see that. Though he'd only heard her sing, and still felt cheated somehow by that accident, he'd never considered her playing. But here was proof that she was talented.

Already is mind worked quickly. She was in need of guidance, of stricter study, but she held promise. Given time at the Garnier and thorough practice, she would be useful to him. Housekeeper now, but perhaps...

_"Christine, the ronde jambe, if you could."_ The words snapped Erik's eyes to the screen. Five students were lined up at the bar, dressed in black leotards and hair swept up. The dance professor, quite a few years older than Madame Giry, sat in a chair before the panoramic mirrors and watched as Christine nodded and approached. With the quick movement the requested _ronde_ required, Erik realized she was gifted, even if a little off in form. He watched as the professor stood to her full, threatening height, and tapped her cane.

_"Everyone, pair up avec each other. I see simple form is still difficult for most to achieve."_ The way the teacher looked down contemptuously on the class seemed to be disheartening to the students as they groaned and began their practice with their partners. Erik looked at how Christine stood, a sigh shaking her frame. Obviously she felt she'd displeased her professor. Perhaps the bat merely held her in high regard.

_"Non, Christine,_" She took the silent girl by the hand and pulled her from the crowd, closer into the camera's view. _"I'd like you to work on stance avec my assistant teacher. Robert!"_ She called out to someone beyond the camera's scope. He couldn't avoid watching the boy approach Christine.

_"Hello, I'm Robert."_ He held his hand out to her, and Christine was so hesitant to accept it. She placed a hand to her throat, and Madame explained. The smile never left the dirty blonde's handsome face. _"Well, then we won't use many words."_

Erik's hands seemed to have found themselves at home burrying his fingernails in the armrest's leather.

Madame left them alone, and Robert circled her with a keen eye as she went through the forms. And, true to his word, he didn't speak. Instead, as the students busied themselves with chatter and stretches, he guided her. He took her wrist, then delicately guided her whole arm up, until the gesture looked more like flowing water. He took her waist with one hand and somehow showed her what he wanted. Christine, with sheer determination on her face, deftly came up _en pointe_, so that she stood high on her toes.

He slid a hand down to her leg, and she hesitated. Faltering, she turned her head to look at him.

_"A full turn, en pointe._" He tried again, this time with a smile of assurance. Christine allowed him to move her, never actually using him for balance. She turned the full rotation under his guidance, then stopped with leg extended.

Robert moved a step back and observed. His hands went to her leg, just under her knee, and slid to her foot. _"Good form, excellent strength, but keep your leg pointed. It's more...aesthetically pleasing."_ He let her return to a resting position and smiled at her. _"You have great potential._"

Christine faltered under that look, and if the recording had been in color, Erik was certain she'd be scarlet at that moment. She bowed her head to him and he laughed, an easy sounding thing.

Erik's hands had long ago turned white under the pressure.

* * *

Christine smiled excitedly into the boxed bundle she held in her arms, and Nadir could only laugh. The girl had gone absolutely still as soon as she'd seen these flowers at the florist's, then nodded her head vehemently. Obviously, these had been her pick.

_They're perfect. Thank you._

"I'm glad they please you," Nadir remarked over the radio's blare, "but are why are you so sure Erik will like them?"

Her only answer was a mysterious widening of her smile. Looking down at the roses, she was sure these were right. Even the weight was familiar to her, like something she'd seen in a dream. _These _suited Erik, she was sure.

When they approached the gate, however, they found it closed. Nadir and Christine looked at each other, before she broke out into a grin. She picked up her pad and wrote a quick note for him.

_I guess Mr. Dessler isn't in the mood for much talk tonight. But I'm sure he'll like these._ She pointed to the flowers emphatically. He tried to reassure her in return.

"Yes, yes I'm sure he will." He watched as she slid out of the passenger seat and walked inside by herself, but felt a chill run up his spine that wasn't from the cold.

* * *

Her hands cradled the roses carefully as she walked upstairs. If she'd had her voice she would've called for him, her excitement was so great. The roses...they _meant_ something to her. They were the perfect color, too. A shade she'd never quite seen in this lifetime...

As she turned to the hall where his music room lay, she spotted him leaving another room altogether. Wasn't that one connected to the study? It was filled with a large entertainment system and a large rug that had been murder to clean. But what had he been doing in there?

He looked at her for a moment, mouth still as death, and she shivered under that gaze. It wasn't pleasant.

"Yes?" His tone had changed back to one of ice, and she didn't like it. He hadn't even used her name. She stuttered a moment under his scrutiny.

_I...I brought something for you, sir._ She took her steps carefully, and held out the box to him.

For one, blissful moment, he was caught off-guard. When he'd seen her, the misdirected anger had taken control. But here she was, with a gift for him. Erik looked at the box, then back at her, before taking it in his hands. The guilt box wasn't very heavy, and the bow slipped off easily. Lifting the top, his eyes widened at what was inside.

A dozen roses stared back at him. A dozen crimson roses lay in the fine wax paper, freshly cut.

_'White roses mean silence...'_

When he found it in himself to look back at Christine, she smiled expectantly. A foolish, sweet smile he'd seen on camera, _for someone else_.

He took one of the pristine flowers in his gloved hand, never tearing his masked eyes from her. "Do you know what a crimson rose means?"

Christine looked at him questioningly. It was familiar, how he held the rose, his eyes meeting hers. But it was wrong somehow, too. She could see a cold fire in his look, which he'd never seen before.

His hand slid to the petals, and watched her look convert to one of slight horror as they fell like red rain to the floor. Finally bare, he let the stem drop.

"Mourning."

Without another word he set the box with the remainder of the flowers on the floor and retreated into the safety of his music room, leaving Christine bewildered and bent over the flowers.

* * *

Inside his music, he played furiously, like a madman. Anything, _anything_ to alleviate the burden that had begun to grow within his chest.

_'No haven for this heart,_

_No shelter for this child in mazes lost_

_heaven keep us apart...'_

_

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_AN: Two steps forward, three back. It's Christine's move now, into Erik's world. Will she use it wisely? Tune into the next chapter and find out. REVIEW, and the answer will come sooner...hint hint. _


	19. Nothing More?

AN: Thank you all for your reviews! I got ultra-inspired after reading them, and got the next chapter out even faster! I hope you'll enjoy it and leave a review to keep me going strong :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the stories I got to tell.

* * *

Perhaps she would have apologized for her poor choice in the morning, after the unknown pain had begun to ease, but Erik made no appearance at breakfast. Alone she ate her tasteless meal of tea and fruit, ears waiting to pick up the sound of his footsteps. By the time she'd finished her piece and cleared her plate, she knew not to expect him.

Careful avoidance and fasting and a terrible black music that filled the air around the manor followed the morning's bad omen. It was sound to make her boy quiver as she did her chores and her heart ache when she thought of him too deeply. When she wasn't in school or at the hospital, it was a suffocating world she tried to make her home in. Though she could not see him, she could _feel_ angry eyes watching her.

No, she was mad. How could he play and watch her at the same time? And, with the new show, he had much better things to do than watch her scrub pans and sweep floors. Then why wouldn't this feeling go away?

Three days passed in this way. It was going to begin to grow normal when, on the fourth evening, just when she was beginning to consider leaving only one place setting on the table again, she saw him.

That night he wore a black domino, his clothing now that one, brooding, monochromatic color. His eyes, which would have been the only thing to contrast the darkness, would not land on hers. She sat dumbstruck, gripping her napkin, but she watched him. As he approached, it took only a second longer for her mind to snap to attention and her pulse to quicken. He came, and she was ready and willing to speak. The second he looked at her, she'd say what she really wanted to, explain that she hadn't meant to upset him.

Erik sat and pulled the napkin into his lap, and she served with shaky limbs. Her eyes continued to watch for any opportunity, as she sat down to her own meal but he denied her. As far as she could tell, he hadn't had anything to eat since this mess had begun, but he still ate with such manners. And his eyes contemplated only the meal set before him, never the nervous girl who hadn't touched hers sitting to his right.

When he'd had enough he set the napkin on his plate and stood. Christine could only watch him walk away, unable to speak to him as she'd wanted. He held her voice in his gaze, and if he did not want her to speak, she could not. When Christine, after she had cleaned and laid down on her bed, realized the extent of his power over her, she could not hold the tears back anymore.

* * *

Four weeks passed in this fashion, and the manor once again fell into unwelcome, obtrusive silence. Christine cooked and cleaned, Erik played his music long into the night. Spring would arrive without the happiness predicted, only as a forethought when the flowers and supplies arrived. Christine was only happy to have more to do. But planting new life only took so long, and soon she had to find other things.

Recently she'd even stepped up her ballet practice in the empty room on the first floor, just to keep herself occupied. On the slick hardwood floor, her steps were refined over and over, until dance became muscle memory. But, in her mind was music, first and foremost. It was only unfortunate that the heaviness of Erik's pervaded her senses, and made her unable to hear her own.

_But what can I do?_ She thought as she stretched on her makeshift bar. Without acknowledging her, Erik wouldn't give her the opportunity to fix whatever she'd broken. He'd come down to meals, but ate briskly and left the table before she did. And she _knew_ that the music room wasn't to be entered, not when he was fully concentrating on playing, not even to stop it.

* * *

White roses mean silence. Yellow roses mean friendship. Red roses mean love. But a crimson rose...

_What do you mourn, Erik?_

The force and suddenness of the irony, naive and blind and terrible, caused him to reject the flowers like poison. The only way to escape that terrible moment was to drown, to fill ears and eyes and lungs, with the murky music that he wrote. So he did-- he played, and would continue to play, until it all subsided. At least, that was the plan.

He played, he wrote, he was inspired and was like a demon at his instrument. But he never quite forgot. Was that, perhaps, why he was so suddenly struck with a need to write lyrics? Was that, also, why he could not bring himself to look at her? If he saw her, he knew, he _knew_, all of the pain imparted by her attempts at kindness would overwhelm him.

Whatever his past, Erik had never abandoned his pride. Now it flared at the slightest thought of her, and what wicked things she could do when she thought she was being nice to her employer.

_Because that's all it is. Nothing more._ She was a child, and undisciplined and fickle creature who would treat a kitten or a person with equal affection. But he was not some stray to be smiled at, then turned away when she met someone closer to her own age. Someone like _Robert_. His life, his near thirty years of silent insanity, had taught him enough. He would not be anyone's object of pity, not even dear Miss Daae's.

At times, he was seized with flaming anger as he thought of her. Her innocence, her youth, even her accident-- he cursed it all. But why? In calmer moments he knew Christine had no reason to be different, could not be faulted for the things he tried to blame her for. Still, that didn't erase that line between pride and desire that he would not cross. One woman had been the exception, and he would not run that gamut again. All that was left of that one were the white roses, and they had not yet begun to bloom the last time he'd been in the garden. It was not yet time to remember _her_, this year. He forced it all back with pure sound, knowing it couldn't last forever. Nothing ever did.

_Ring, ring._ His phone rang, and he moved across the room to answer it, but he glanced at the caller ID just as he touched it. If possible, the day was about to get worse.

"Hello, devil-child," An all too familiar voice chimed. "It's been too long since I've seen you."

* * *

_Giselle_ was one of her favorite ballet characters, and so having to perform a short piece to the music was a more than welcome challenge. Christine, her long brown curls pulled up into a messy bun, kept her motions fluid exactly as Robert had taught her. The grand jete was a simple matter now, the foulettes even and smooth, thanks to the extra practice she'd managed this month. She could do it without thinking, which was a wonderful asset, because at the moment all she could think about was the dream she'd had the past night.

Again, the white space and the shrouded figure. But this time, he held no kindness for her, either. A silver mask, with a grotesque and sorrowful frown covered his features.

_'I don't know what to do.' _She moved to him in her dream sphere, hoping he might shed light. Instead, he lifted his hand in a stopping motion.

_"Weak." _His voice froze all warmth within her. _"If this is as far as you dare go, it was a worthless undertaking. Erik cannot be helped in an easy way. The task would not take more lifetimes if it were the case."_

_'He won't speak to me. He won't let **me** speak.'_ She pressed a hand to her breast in emphasis. _'What can I do? What have I done to deserve that?' _Her tears fell like ice down her cheeks. '_He's so angry. I never knew he was that terrible.'_

_"Does it hurt?"_

_'Yes.' _Her eyes burned with salt._ 'How could it not? I thought we'd become friends. I thought...he might care.' _She laughed bitterly. _'But perhaps he doesn't need or want anything to do with me.'_

_"Foolish girl."_ The being quipped. His eyes bored into hers from behind the garish face. _"A body has ears, eyes, but humans cannot be made to understand. I tire of this." _She might have opened her mouth to object, but his eyes pierced hers, and somehow she became immobile. She couldn't turn away from his berating, and he came closer. _"Take care, Christine. The wheels of his fate began to turn before you were even born into this life." _His hand lifted to his mask, and he removed it. _"Unless you notice and take care, you'll break your promise."_

_'To what?'_

_"To the thorns, of course."_

That had been the end of that conversation, but not the end of her problems. Perhaps they'd only begun.

As she danced her piece before Madame Cassat, Robert eyed her proudly. In a short period, a few months, she'd proved an excellent study. He gave her pointers where he could, but she picked it up quickly. Now she stood on her own for review, and looked like a goddess. She wore no costume, only the standard black leotard and tights, and a few curls fell into her flushed face, but she was every bit the dancer.

"Thank you, Miss Daae." Madame Cassat clapped a few times as she finished her piece. Christine bowed politely, taking a few breaths before smiling a little. "You may be excused, but please tell the next student to wait a few moments before passing in."

Christine smiled at Madame, and walked towards the door where Robert happened to be leaning. He smiled wider as she approached.

"You've been watching your form more, haven't you?" He asked, an eyebrow quirked in a playful manner. Christine nodded her head and pointed to the stage where she'd performed. Her eyes looked up to him questioningly as she nodded slower. Immediately he understood what she wanted to ask.

_Did I look all right?_

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Like an angel, so quit worrying about Madame. She's tough on the ones she likes is all." He patted her head and nudged her a little towards the door. "Now go on."

Christine gave him one more grateful look and touched her hand to her lips and back down in a gesture he'd begun to understand to be a thank you. As soon as she'd gone, he turned to Madame and walked over. Already she was jotting notes on her clipboard, eyes thoughtful on the information.

"Potential," she muttered to herself. "Giry was right about that."

"I'll say so." Robert took a seat beside her. "You did have me practice with her for a reason."

"Perhaps you needed the exercise." She laughed at her own joke, and looked at the glossy photo in Christine's folder. "She could successfully shift majors into our field, I should think."

Robert took the photo from her hands and looked it over. Christine was dressed as Odette from _Swan Lake_, and she glittered under that lighting. "So...does this mean you consider her a worthy candidate for _l'audition universitaire_?"

She mused, biting the tip of her pencil. "Are you making a nomination for _l'ecole_?"

"Yes, I believe I am."

* * *

After her performance and a quick shower in the dancers' locker room, Christine headed home. For every mile she got closer, the dread in her stomach grew. She was beginning to understand that today might just be like yesterday-- a lost cause. But when she pulled the car closer to the manor, she was very surprised to see the gate open, and an unknown white car parked right next to the steps.

_But Nadir always parks in the garage..._

Well, perhaps, because of the change in weather, it wasn't necessary anymore. But she'd never seen him drive that white car.

_No, leave them alone. Don't go prying into Erik's business again._ She shook her head and pulled into the garage. From there she picked up her work gloves and tools and headed to the back garden. Christine had not taken a good look in some time, and she was sure a little weeding would be necessary by now. And, perhaps, she merely wanted to avoid entering the house once again.

Pulling open the little wooden fence that closed in the vegetables, her eye caught something. At the far end, the hedges grew as lush and green as Nadir had promised. But there, hidden behind a few leaves, was a newly bloomed white rose.

_It's not time yet._ She walked, bespelled, to look closely at the flower. _I haven't even seen a single bud yet, either._ But there it was-- a white rose, full petals and strong, and her hope rose.

_'To the thorns, of course.'_

Her small hand cupped the flower gently, as her free hand snipped it free. The large bloom overflowed with scent as she carefully clipped the thorns from it, then held it up to the afternoon's dying light.

_Courage._ She stood, and headed inside the house, gentle offering in hand. This had to be her sign, sent to her from that being in her dreams. Maybe she could set things right now. In her excitement, she decided it would be worth it to interrupt Erik's music session.

* * *

"Your home, as always, is lovely." Such polite manners didn't befit the man standing in front of Erik. He'd waltzed in and walked to his music room with a swagger befitting the owner of the house, not such an unwanted guest. Erik, in contrast, stood starched into his suit and mask secured. His gloved hands were balled in tight fists as the man approached him with his friendly manner. Joseph Buquet had always been a wolf in sheep's clothing.

"Buquet." He tried to loosen up a little as the intruder leaned up against the fireplace. "Already burned through what you took last time?" It was useless to attempt small talk-- they both knew what he was here for.

Joseph clicked his tongue and wagged his finger at Erik, as if the man were nothing more than a child. "That's not exactly fair. Now I provide a valuable service, and you got no reason to complain."

Erik remained grim faced as Buquet heaved himself up and traced a finger over the ebony piano, but inside he seethed. "Don't you like your privacy? Don't you want to keep it that way?" Buquet gave him a winning smile. "Isn't that worth a fair sum to you?"

_Bastard._ Erik could not feel his hands for the strength of his grip. The man would try to sugar coat blackmail, but Erik had long learned from the stupid mistakes of the past. This man was no friend of his, only a thorn in his side.

"Besides, how would Madeleine feel if I left-"

"Buquet!" Erik interrupted gruffly. "You came here for money, didn't you?"

Before Joseph could speak another word Erik crossed the room and opened a safe in the wall. Pulling out a small briefcase, he tossed it at the man's feet. Joseph looked unconcernedly from the case and back up to Erik. "Did I ...did I hit a nerve?"

Erik might have found the strength to ask him to leave, but the click of his music room interrupted these thoughts.

_'Not now...'_

_

* * *

_

Luck had never been on Erik's side, and would not veer its course now. Christine came bounding into the room, a white rose in her hands. The excitement in her eyes was impossible not to notice. She caught his eye like a ray of light in the dark, before her features became confused.

"Perhaps that's not all." Buquet's voice caused him to fill up with unknown dread. Erik watched as Christine looked nervously at the handsome man. Even though he was Erik's age and height, he was well-tanned and all smiles as he approached Christine.

_'Don't.'_ Inside, he knew the words. _'Don't touch her. Don't frighten her.'_ Dread filled him as Christine backed up into a wall and Buquet kept advancing.

"I didn't know you were keeping a little lady here." Joseph called behind him as he closed the gap between them. He lowered his head to look her in the eye. "Hello, honey. What's your name?"

Christine shook her head a little, and looked towards Erik as he stood feet away from this stranger. Her hand still held the rose, and she raised it a little. Parting her lips a little, she tried to speak to him, but now that the opportunity had arisen, she was afraid.

_Help._

Joseph turned to see what she stared at, and laughed. He took her chin in his fingers and turned her head to his direction. "No, no, darlin'-- I'm nothing to be scared of. I'm no monster. Erik here, on the other hand, he's the stuff of scary dreams."

Behind him Erik shook with rage. His eyes bored holes into the back of the man's head as he spoke, but inside he wanted nothing more than to run from this whole situation.

_'Don't make her see. Don't make her see. Don't.'_

"Never seen his face?" He continued. He turned her head a little to take a better look at those peach lips. "No, I bet he's kept it real covered since you came round. Pretty girl like you wouldn't stay if you saw it."

Erik would kill him, if he continued. He would bash his head in a thousand times over, until there was blood strewn over the carpet.

_'Don't make her see. Don't make her see. Don't make her **leave**.'_

"I bet-"

_SLAP!_

The sound brought Erik back to his senses. He looked at Christine with wide, new eyes as he realized what had happened. Her hand was raised, her eyes ablaze, but he was no longer gripping her chin. Instead, Buquet held his cheek with surprise.

_Get out._ Her mouth was firm, and he read it as clearly as if she'd shouted it. But of course, Buquet would do her no such pleasure. The once congenial face was twisted in anger, and he raised his own hand against her.

"You little-"

Christine dropped her flower, and covered her head with her hands. When no blow came, she peered up to see Joseph no longer looked at her.

Erik held the man's fist with a firm grip. Their eyes were locked in a battle of wills.

"You don't touch her." Erik growled, forcing Joseph to take a step back before releasing his hand. He motioned to the case. "I assume our business is finished here."

Joseph was angry, but he knew when to cut his losses. The briefcase contained enough money to live extremely comfortably, for a time anyway. There was no real need to rouse Erik up further. It was still very clear who was in charge.

_'Let the monster have his whore.'_

Dusting off his own suit, he bent and picked up the case. He offered Christine a little smile. "I suppose I'll see you again." With that ominous warning and a click of the lock, he left them alone in the silent music room.

Christine had looked so steady when she'd stood up to Buquet, so it came as a surprise to Erik when she crumpled to the floor. Her eyes were wide, and threatening to spill her tears as he knelt beside her. She was shaking terribly, and that frightened him. Had Buquet hurt her?

"Are you all right, Miss Daae?" He touched her chin with the gentle pressure of a finger, but she would not answer him. Erik grew a little frustrated, and shook her a little."Did he hurt you? Christine?"

The only answer he received were her trembling arms as they slid about his neck. He stiffened, but watched her carefully.

_I was afraid. I was only afraid._ She searched him over carefully. _Did he hurt you?_

"No, no, I'm fine." He shook his head. Why? Why was she touching him? Hadn't she heard Buquet? And why did his own gloved hands ache to give her comfort in return?

Regretfully, one of her hands fell away to pick something up. He recognized it as a white rose from his garden. She held it to him cautiously.

_I'm sorry. _She gave him a sad little half-smile. _I didn't know what the flower meant. I only...liked it, so much. I'm sorry._

He regarded her deep, wet eyes a moment longer before reaching for the hand that held the rose. But instead of merely taking the flower, he took her wrist and let her fall into him.

It wasn't normal. It wasn't right. It wouldn't last. He knew all of this, but he also knew he'd spent a month hiding from the gentlest creature he'd ever known. Letting his gloved hands bring her close as she cried her little, crystal tears, he knew it was too late to care.

_'Don't let her leave. Don't ever let her leave.'_

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_AN: Well? Do I have your attention on the fate of Erik? A little peace after a lot of pain doesn't seal his redemption, but it might just be a real start...REVIEW and stay tuned! _


	20. Power Over You

AN: Thank you for reading this far! I'm really surprised and thrilled at how kind you all have been in reading and leaving me reviews. It shows you're really into the development of the story :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing, this is a labor of love...I'm paid in REVIEWS!

How long they remained like that, neither Christine nor Erik could be sure. They only knew that the last tear had dried long before either considered moving from that spot on his music room carpet. The white rose, her offering to him, lay forgotten beside them as they held fast to each other. No memories of the time before she arrived would ruin this moment. Nothing ever would.

Erik could not feel her hair in his hands, his gloves an unfortunate barrier between them. But her curls wound and tickled the unmasked part of his face, and it was too much. Compelled, he turned is head closer, and he couldn't help but breathe her in. Her scent was impossible to pinpoint. Soft and sweet, a strange spice he'd never known before, and might never again.

When she pulled away, it wasn't the rapid reaction he'd feared. Her hands found his lapels for strength, and she lifted her head from his shirt. He watched as she stared a moment at the fabric before she cautiously lifted her eyes to his. One of her hands went to the wet spot her tears had made on his dark clothing.

_I'm sorry. I've stained you._

And he didn't hesitate to return her gaze, even as he laughed softly. Even if he was afraid.

"Yes, you have, Christine."

It was too late to turn away anymore.

Things might be improving. Christine hoped, guardedly, that the way he'd looked at her and smiled meant something was growing different between them. If it were false, if this were broken once more, she doubted she'd have the strength to keep her faith. How he could uplift her or devastate her without even trying frightened her already!

But he'd held her. He'd reached out for her and taken care of her. Wasn't that worth a little trust? She really pondered that question as she watered the garden the next day. She took extra care to make sure the hedges were well cared for, and took stock of the plant. No more signs yet, even though yesterday there was suddenly a bud bursting into bloom, but she was hopeful. More would come. They had to.

She put the hose and her gloves away in the garden shed, and went back inside, untying the yellow kerchief that kept her hair bound and out of her face as she worked. With a sigh she rolled her neck, feeling tired after such a long day of work and chores. But dinner still needed to be put on the table, and it might be the first meal they'd shared in a while, a thought that excited her. She only wanted to hurry into the kitchen when she saw Erik standing there, waiting.

Stopping in her tracks, she titled her head a tiny bit.

_Sir?_

He was unreadable, but she took a step closer anyway. And with that one step, he broke eye contact.

"I believe something was just dropped off for you. A delivery." He wasn't looking at her, but at the room beyond her. Her bedroom. "It's been left in your room." Now that the message had been relayed, he deemed it safe enough to look up at her once more. Christine took the opportunity to nod dumbly, surprise evident in her eyes.

_Thank you, sir._

When he said nothing, she took it as a sign to go and see what had come for her. Perhaps Madame Giry had sent over a few of her old costumes as she'd promised, or the new course listings for school had come early. In any case, it was probably something that could have waited until dinner was ready, but obediently she opened her door and stepped inside without realizing Erik followed nearby.

Her room had always been modestly decorated with photographs of her friends and family, and a little jewelry box that was a family heirloom, but now it glowed. On her lavender colored quilt was her own sea of roses. Crimson flowers bloomed and spilled off of her dresser and onto the hard wood floor.

A simple apology would have made her happier than she could remember being. This..._display_ did something else altogether.

_'I didn't know what the flower meant. I only...liked it, so much. I'm sorry.'_

He'd heard her. He'd understood.

"I'm sure you didn't mean any harm." His voice caused her to gasp and turn around, breaking the rose's spell. He looked at her, clenching and unclenching his gloved hands uncertainly. "And it's all right if you like them--I hope you do." He shook his head, and paused. She watched him carefully, unsure still of how she ought to receive this gift, or his words. "You don't understand why I act as I do, and that's all right, too."

_No!_ Now she did have to object. She took a step towards him, and watched him falter considerably.

_It's not all right. I don't like it at all. _Her hand raised itself to her breast. _I do want to know. If ...if there are things I do...that hurt you, please tell me._

"Why?" He couldn't help but ask. Why did she try so hard? Why hadn't she listened to Buquet?

She didn't answer. Instead she took a rose from her bed, and held it out to him. Looking into his eyes expectantly, she smiled.

_I want to understand._

He reached out and took what she offered him, but his eyes never left hers.

_'Maybe someday...'_

Nadir hadn't heard from Christine or Erik for two months, and it unnerved him. While he was sure the garden and manor and school were sure to keep Christine busy, Erik was meticulous. And with a new piece in the definitive stages, Erik would normally drag him through every little detail until it became rote memorization on Nadir's part. But that wasn't the case.

Erik would e-mail information, and the schedule of meetings Nadir would attend and what he'd have to say. He left it at that...and it was too strange. Normally, Nadir considered himself a trusting individual...but this was Erik! Friend, business associate, reclusive genius-- and he wasn't being himself. When it finally worried him enough, he got into his car and drove towards Erik's home.

Without the melting snow, he could see the grounds being restored to their former splendor. Ivy crept its way up the wall of the eastern wing, catching the last rays of the sun, and the fountain in front of the entrance sprang to life once more.

_Miss Daae's influence, no doubt._ That girl could probably move mountains, really.

He had no time to knock, when the door opened to reveal a smiling angel.

_Nadir!_

Christine motioned for him to come in, and took his hat and coat from him. He let a little relief escape his lips as he watched her put away his things.

"Hello again, Christi-" His greeting was cut short when he saw her put a finger to her lips. Her eyes seemed alight with some excitement, and he did as he was told. He quieted down, and his ears picked up sound. Wondrous sound. Erik must be at his instrument.

A tug on his sleeve caused him to look back at Christine, just in time to be handed a scrap of paper.

_Go and see him. I'll bring up some cool peach tea in a bit._

Well, then, who was he to resist such an offer?

Since that night, music was flowing through him, humming in his blood. He played nearly day and night, but this time it was different. This time, he wasn't playing to avoid those deep, honey eyes, or what they may inspire. His door was ajar, always, and she could hear him throughout the house.

And, from time to time, she'd come to him with a little warm food or some drink. Then she'd come and stand behind him, and listen to his songs, thinking he couldn't feel her there. Silly girl, she didn't realize how she could bring the sweetest peace, just by existing. He'd only begun to realize it himself!

But he kept up the act. He pretended to play, unconcerned with the physical world. That is, until she touched his shoulder gently and brought him back to earth. Only then would he turn, and look into her soft eyes.

_You need to rest a moment, sir._

That was her sole reproach, delivered with that smile he couldn't deny. So, for those moments, he stopped playing and sat with her in the quiet room as she spoke about the garden or her composition classes. In the times when neither said a word, he looked at her, and saw music. In such a short time, she'd become something he'd always lacked and never realized he needed-- a muse. A mute girl with a strange light in her eyes.

He pondered this as he played a slow, melancholy tune. The sound was a slight pounding to the keys, an almost violent act, but it was necessary. He imagined the dark stage, only one pale blue spotlight. And there she was, in a wedding gown once glorious but now reduced to worn spider's silk. Only the veil remains perfect and pristine, obscuring her face, but not that voice. That beautiful voice.

_'feather moon  
scarlet sky  
living clouds  
my blinded eye  
waters black  
wood in snow  
dead of night  
how bright you glow'_

Slowly, the light on stage would change. The light would grow red, lightly at first, then crimson.

_'breathe in, breathe out  
exhale and inhale'_

Then the crowning touch on this dark, uninhabited stage-world. Red rose petals falling like snow, right over his star-- the young, still-naive Medea. The sad, unrequited monster in the making. The beauty before the beast ever surfaced._  
'seven sins  
god of stone  
all is true  
down to the bone  
feather moon  
scarlet sky  
I love-'_

"Erik?" Nadir's voice cut his reverie short, and he turned in surprise.

"I didn't ask you to come today." Erik observed as his friend crossed the room to sit close-by. Nadir shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"If I don't keep you company, who will?" He looked past Erik, and at the white roses gathered in a vase beyond him.

_The ghosts of the past, perhaps?_

"Well, you're just in time. I was going to ask Christine to bring up some of the tea she's left to cool." Erik gathered his music sheets together and set them in his leather bound portfolio.

"It's already April." Nadir observed calmly. "The roses are blooming." His voice grew quieter towards the end, trying to ease his remark for his listener's ears.

April. The month the roses bloom. The month Madeleine passed away, scarring Erik with her last breath.

Nadir noticed Erik rise from his piano bench, and towards his window. As always, the heavy drapes shut out the light. He stopped there, a gloved hand on the wall, and Nadir waited for the storm that must follow. Perhaps he'd wanted to be alone with his memories, but Nadir would allow no such thing. He needed someone to be with him, and that was why he'd come.

"T.S. Eliot said April is the cruelest month." Erik turned his head to see Nadir, but it was utterly devoid of the anger that Nadir had expected. It was something new, more profound than even the resignation Nadir had hoped might someday come. His green eyes seemed to shine. "What do you think?"

His hand reached the drape's edge, and he pulled it open. The bright spring light blinded Nadir for a moment, and so he shielded his eyes with his hand as he stood and walked towards the open window. As Nadir's eyes adjusted to the light once more, they widened at what he saw. The garden was springing to life, exactly as Christine had hoped. The little vegetable garden had shoots, the morning glories had flourished by the shed, and the white lilac tree had transplanted very well.

And the roses in the hedges were blooming, full and glorious. They met the sun in bursts of white and crimson entwined, and Nadir had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. Change. Real, physical proof that it was possible.

"I...never much cared for Eliot." Nadir admitted quietly, eyes still soaking in that sight. It might have been an illusion, an impossibility.

"At last." Erik chuckled. _Chuckled._ "At last, common ground."

Was that a slight smile on Erik's face?

_Knock!_

The sound interrupted his stupefied expression, and he turned to see Christine knock on the doorframe of the open room, balancing what appeared to be a heavy tray with a pitcher of the promised tea and glasses.

_Would you like some of the peach tea now, sir?_

Gone was the nervousness that ate at her smile. It was perhaps the most beautiful smile Nadir had ever seen her give, not because she hadn't been genuine before, but because this time she wasn't afraid of being judged harshly by Erik. It was obvious, from that smile to her posture, that she wasn't afraid anymore.

Without a word Erik approached her, smile turned into a thin frown. He lifted the tray from her surprised hands and walked it over to the table. "You don't have to try juggling something like this upstairs. If it was heavy you should have just told me-" Remembering he now had an audience, Erik cut himself short by pouring a glass of the iced tea and held it out to her. "Thank you, Christine."

Shyly she extended her hand and took the glass from him and smiled again.

_I'm sorry, sir. I'll be more careful from now on._

Erik nodded his head at her shortly, slightly embarrassed that he'd opened his mouth with Nadir there. He poured some tea into the remaining glasses and handed one to Nadir.

"Thank you," Nadir murmured as he took the glass. He smiled at Christine and took a long sip of the cool drink. "So, have you been busy on the score?" He asked off-handedly.

"A bit," Erik admitted quietly. However, Christine shook her head furiously at him, and retorted. With a sigh, Erik nodded his head. "Yes, I'm aware of that."

Christine continued to speak in her silent way to Erik, and he answered in his short fashion, completely ignoring Nadir. For his part, Nadir had no desire to interrupt. Watching them together, standing in the sunlight that flooded in from that window, was enough to ease him. More than enough, really. It amazed him.

That night, she dreamed. This time, however, she wasn't in a blank, white abyss. A field of wildflower swayed with the wind, all around her, and she smiled.

_'You're here.'_ She didn't know how, but she could feel it. The powerful being was there in her dreams.

_"I am always watching." _

She turned to see the being just behind her, and smiled. _'I think I figured something out today.'_

_"Truly?" _The being's face remained forever passive, but she took it as encouragement that he'd said anything at all. Placing a hand over the waving flowers, she could swear she could feel the buds brush against her skin.

_'Erik is kind, but he hates to show it. Isn't that strange?' _She plucked an anemone and brought it up to her nose.

_"And how do you know that?"_

_'Because.'_ She shook her head, and took in a breath of the flower. _'I can't say for sure, how I know him. Not from this life, but the other one.'_

_"Life as the little ingenue? The pampered protege?" _

_'No, not as any sort of star.' _Christine gave him a little look, wondering if he'd said it in malice. _'But I do have memories of that time, somewhere in here.' _Pointing to her head to emphasize, she added. _'Of a girl no one would give the time of day. Because, after all, what is one crying child in a chapel to a world with all of its doors closed against the cold night?'_

Now the angel moved to stand behind her. His hands moved to gently cover her eyes, and she remained still._ "But it was a phantom who found you, wasn't it?" _She didn't attempt to move, knowing perfectly well he would allow her to move when he was ready. _"Kindness does not save a man, but perhaps it's a start."_

_'I remember him, most of all him.' _She admitted. _'Those sad, angry eyes.'_ And it was true. She could remember the deep emotions in those eyes, in the body of that man who'd been saved too late. Without a doubt, _he_ was what Christine remembered most. Everything except...

_"He's moving forward, like you."_ Christine could hear each pounding beat of her heart at those words.

He pulled his hands away, but Christine caught one deftly.

_'Please, something's been bothering me.'_

_"What is it?"_

_'What is underneath the mask?'_

_AN: Well? A little growth, but the one question that could destroy all of that's surfaced. Leave a review and stay tuned for the next installment! _


	21. Let My Opera Begin

AN: Eek, been a while! I've had lots of life interruptions, so I had to take a break, but here's the next chapter. Thank you for your patience and staying tuned for the next installment.

Disclaimer: I own nothing but my soul. Yeah, that causes problems sometimes...

_'What is he hiding underneath the mask?'_

Later, when all had come to pass, Christine would realize the great mistake she'd made in asking her question. Her great, terrible curiosity.

_'What is he hiding underneath the mask?'_

The being took hold of her wrist with his other hand, and freed himself from her grasp gently. Christine stood before him, waiting for an answer.

_"Is it important?"_ He finally spoke, inclining his head to observe her more carefully. _"Does it matter that much to you, curious little Christine?"_

Christine had always, since she could remember meeting this ethereal being, felt a kind of divine wrath tainting his every move and word. His eyes at times flashed and flickered quicksilver at her own words and actions, as if still angry she'd defied heaven and been reborn into this brave new world. And she'd accepted it as a price to pay, along with her voice, for the chance to see Erik again. But as she spoke he looked deep into her eyes, and she could do the same. Something fell in those lively eyes, though his face remained as passive and cool as ever.

_'He's hiding from me. How am I supposed to help unless I know what's wrong?'_

His hand reached forward then, to touch her hair. Christine took in a breath and waited patiently to see what he'd do next.

_"You wish to see." _He spoke in such a submissive, sad way, that Christine stammered mentally for her answer.

_'Y-yes.'_ Her head tilted slightly in question. _'Whose is that face in the mask?'_

As soon as she'd asked that question, her mind seemed to reel, and fill with an image. She was in some strange cavern, and she could hear the lapping water around her. But what she saw was a man's back as he was hard at work composing.

_Who is...?_

She was going to take that step forward, when just as suddenly a bright light burned that image from her mind like a film strip. Christine opened her eyes to find herself looking at the solemn figure. He held something between his fingers, staring at her intently. A red thread, whose hold she could feel tugging at her throat. She almost coughed at the sensation.

With a quick, tight motion, the being cut it free and the tugging disappeared. In his hand remained one little strand. Bringing her hand palm up before her, he placed it there and stepped back.

_"You will know, but only in this life. By your own hand, you've forced fate's." _He lifted his hand and touched her cheek in a fatherly gesture. _"I wonder what you'll see this time, poor, fortunate mademoiselle?"_

When she woke from this dream, she had no answer for him. Instead, Christine went to shower and change for the new day, unaware of the red thread clinging to her comforter, forgotten.

Joseph watched the morning from his vantage point, his veranda as it overlooked the vineyard below. The sun glistened from the grape leaves and the earth smelled wet still. Summer was soon approaching, and the grapes nearly burst in promise of sweet wine. Anyone else might have felt sated by the scenery, by the good food and drink he'd been given, by the beautiful woman who had been more than happy to lavish it all on him. And Joseph Buquet was just that kind of man-- the kind who'd use the unearned luck of his face to his advantage and reap the rewards with a smile.

But he did not smile this morning. Instead, he stood there in another man's robe and thought. He thought on the money safely tucked away into his various accounts, musing how long it might last without proper investment. He also thought on the man, who in his opinion was no man at all, who generously supplied him his funds. And, more than anything, he thought about that girl. That pretty, impertinent girl.

There were more beautiful women in the world, larger breasts and curvier hips and more seductive. And he'd known some for his own. But her outright rejection was not what baffled him. Instead, it was who she chose. It didn't matter if she were stupid, if she didn't know...the difference had been glaring at her in the face. It had been obvious, and she'd been warned.

"Darling, have you been up all this time?" A woman's voice emerged and drowned the rest of his thoughts. He turned to see her, glass of orange juice in her hand for him. Smiling, though not necessarily at her, he took it.

"Thank you, Mariella." He took a sip and gave her a wry look. "So, when's he coming back?" His question earned an apathetic shrug of her gloriously tanned shoulders.

"Sometime this afternoon. Now get dressed, I want to go shopping on his card."

"Your husband's not going to like that." He chuckled, turning back to the vineyard.

"Well, tough. He has a trophy wife, that comes at a high price." She ran her perfectly soft hands over his robed shoulders once before pulling away. "I'm taking a shower."

Joseph didn't respond, already lost in his thoughts. Mariella was beautiful, wealthy, daring. Easily his counterpart, and he _knew_ what choice she'd make in Christine's place. And that just irked him all the more. Without a second chance to ponder it over, he allowed the glass to easily slip out of his grasp and shatter on the hardwood floor. Easy enough to blame on accident, and still a satisfying sound to him.

For the life of him, for all of his successful games, Joseph still didn't understand the most basic of rules-- one covets what one cannot have. It was a lesson sure to make Erik's already difficult life more unpleasant.

"Are you mad, Christine?" Erik sighed, rubbing his temple in frustration. She'd made one request--_one_--and he'd been of a mind to accept it. Now here they were, hours later, looking at her class assignment and no closer to finishing the opening to his own play.

Christine merely shook her head, and pulled the pen that was keeping her hair up in a bun free. Her curls fell in rivers as she began to tap it in a steady rhythm.

_Percussion, and a piano medley._

"It's not an original combination in the least." He tapped his fingers against the wood of his piano, imitating her rhythm with the pen. "And this is soft and quick, too quick for a drummer to follow with complete precision."

At that she sighed, too, and bit her fingernail in thought. She had really hoped to improve the sound of the quietly playing piano with _something_ that kept tempo better.

_Complete drums. Not just a snare. _She pondered it a little more, trying to find a way. It had begun with a question-- 'Will you listen to what I'm working on?'-- and ended with this nonstop lesson.

_Cymbals, complete drums._ Turning to the side to regard him better, she tried to gage his reaction.

Pensive, he considered this. The beat would be too quick for two drumsticks and the stretched skin of the drum, at least for most of it...the chorus...maybe..

"Using side snare...the sound of the chain. It would produce that softer sound you're looking for, and it would still be clear. Cymbals and complete drum in sections of your choice, but intersperse." He looked her sheet music over, and his hands played her medley. Instinctively she tapped in time. Nodding his head to the music, he had to hold back from taking over her project. This had to be her collaboration with a classmate, her perfect song. He should have as little to do with it as possible.

His hands stopped, and Christine did as well. She looked up with an inquiring gaze.

"That's enough for now," he quickly explained. "I don't want to take over your project, and I doubt you'd appreciate it, either." His hands looked over her music sheets, flipping through. "You've even begun lyrics." His only sign of approval was a little smile when he spotted the words.

Christine tapped her fingers noiselessly on her lap and nodded her head.

_I'm creating the piece, and my partner will perform it at our review._ She finally settled her hands, lacing her fingers one with the other, and fell into thought. What would it sound like, when it was finished?

"You've never let it go, have you?" Erik turned away quickly, looking at the piano keys instead of her surprised expression. "It still hurts you." Now he raised his eyes a little to regard her. "Your voice."

At the look he gave she started and stared a moment. With a little sigh of relief, she closed her eyes a moment. Shaking her head she reassured him.

_No. _Christine smiled as he quirked a brow. _Someone told me I'd lost my instrument, not my talent, and I'm going to prove him right._ Taking the sheet that had her lyrics, she raised her eyes. _Well?_

Looking first at her, he had to be impressed. It must have been hard, he'd seen to that unknowingly, and she was still so resilient. When he lowered is eyes and took the sheet from her, her hands began to play from rote memory, and he read.

_... And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
how much longer dear angels  
let winterlight come  
and spread your white sheets over my empty house..._

'Liar,' Erik thought. It was impossible not to miss the sound her heart could produce, what it could have done still. It was impossible not to miss it, and write these words. She understood frustration very well, better than she let on.

But he didn't pity her. It wasn't that kind of choking emotion that he felt when he looked at her, when he learned new things about her. It was...frightening, and pity wasn't scary.

As he watched her working so intently, he couldn't help but think of his own work. Would the young, untainted Medea be like this? The kind of being who poured herself into everything, even a destructive love? Someone...beautiful.

The image was becoming clearer now, of the spotlight and that destroyed bride's hope. And he found the lines.

_..not knowing why..._

With a start he stood, causing her to miss her notes. She looked up in surprise, and pulled her hand away from the piano.

_Was it that bad?_

"No...no, I think it's progressing very well. The lyrics are smart, poetic. I only..." What could he excuse himself with? There was no good reason to jump away from her playing as if it were a snake. But it was impossible not to..when thoughts like _those_ suddenly sprang up.

_I should start dinner._ Christine stood and put her things back in her portfolio, and didn't ask a question. Her silent understanding didn't go unnoticed.

"Yes, thank you Christine."

She turned at the doorway, and gave him an unsure look. It was what staved his desire to start pacing in thought. "Yes, Christine?"

Opening her mouth, she tilted the corners of her soft lips into a hesitant smile.

_Thank you, for caring._

When he lingered in the music room somehow made colder by her absence, it was with a purpose. Erik reached for his music sheets and began the slow march of Medea. And then, picking up the pen with one hand and still playing with the other, he wrote the words he'd needed for so long.

_..Seven sins  
god of stone  
all is true  
down to the bone--  
feather moon  
scarlet sky  
I love you endlessly,  
not knowing why..._

He set his pen down, and stood.

"Let my opera begin," he murmured, shutting the case of his instrument.

AN: And, unfortunately, the wheels are turning and the twists are coming. Stay tuned and for goodness' sake, leave a review to let me know you're still there! I need them like I need air!_  
_


	22. The Mask: Drought

AN: Hello, everyone. I'm so very sorry for the hiatus, but I had good reasons to be away. Aside from school and work, I had very little time left to spend with a friend I won't be able to see again. He was really sweet, and like an older brother, but he was also very sick. I wanted to spend as much time as I could before he left to be with his parents and loved ones. I love him very much, and I just needed to say that. Thank you.

It's not a sad story, really, so I don't meant to depress or upset anyone. Neither of us are afraid for him, and we lived it up as much as humanly possible (including going swimming at midnight in freaking December just because he felt like it.). We're both happy individuals, and he liked this story. I'm going to see it through so he can find out what I'm planning for the end, too :)

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Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the amazing Vienna Teng's music. That is all her own stuff, and it's awe-inspiring.

* * *

Christine's partner made serious demands of her time, now that their performance review was upon them. And whether Erik approved of it or not, her days at the school became longer and she often returned thoroughly tired. However, being the Christine Daae that she was, she felt as though she was shirking her duties. So she tied her hair back after those long afternoons, put on her apron, and made sure to sweep and mop as dinner lay cooking on the stove. Her mind had time for little else.

* * *

Had Erik not been devoted to music, had he been an ounce human (as he assured himself he was not), had he _enjoyed_ her company...perhaps this might've disappointed him. Perhaps he'd feel a twinge of jealousy not unlike what he'd felt watching that tape of Robert. But it was impossible, improbable!

And that's what he continued to tell himself, as he played in his music room and missed the nights they had shared there. He could not deny she had talent, and that her music was being carefully composed. She wasn't rushing the process, as someone her age might have. He had to feel some pride at that, though he hadn't had much to do with it. Thinking about her song once more, a thought struck him.

He wanted to hear it, even if it wasn't her voice singing it. So, naturally, he picked up the pone and dialed Fermin's extension. Naturally, and knowing Fermin had caller ID, he knew he wouldn't be waiting long.

"Hello, Mr. Dessler." His voice was high and guilty, as if he'd just been speaking of him. Erik frowned.

"Mr. Fermin, I thought I'd been clear on receiving updates on a particular student's progress."

"Well...well yes. Perfectly clear. Crystal." Buying time didn't curry Erik's favor. "We could ask the professors for evaluations on her standing-"

"Useless. They might send glowing reports, but where's the proof? Oh, but I believe there are the semi-annuals coming up?" It was better to feign ignorance than make the man suspicious. No need to have him believe he was trying to help Ms. Daae in any way.

"Yes, yes! The reviews of our students. They'll be performing in the mandatory review, and we certainly record those."

"Then, of course, you will allow me to watch?"

"Yes, we'll have a disc sent to you the next day-"

"No, same day. A simulcast over the public access channel, I believe, might help us both. Excellent publicity for the school, and a chance for me to evaluate talent, perhaps not merely hers."

For a blissful moment Fermin was stunned to silence. It was certainly a strange request he was setting up.

"But, Mr. Dessler, the costs-"

"I seem to remember writing a check for your school. It should be in tomorrow's mail. Use that."

"And the students, sir? They're new, how can they be expected to perform under pressure?"

"Because they must," Erik sighed, "otherwise it's pointless for them to study performance at all."

And that was the end of the discussion.

* * *

_They want us to perform live tomorrow. _She sat across from him, after serving dinner. _Like a real concert._

"Well, it's not surprising. You are a _real_ performer." Even without listening to her voice, he could somehow mimic the tone. She smirked.

_I haven't ever played before a large audience. Only...only Vienna. And you, sir._ As she finished saying this she squeezed some lemon into her tea and drank slowly, with a wince.

"Are you still feeling ill?" He asked, watching her facial expressions for anything she might not mention. She was busy, terribly busy, and hadn't had time for anything other than music.

Unfortunately this must have meant forgetting her own health, because she soon found herself with what appeared to be a sore throat. Though she had no cough or body ache, her throat had begun to swell a little, and she ran little fevers now and then. At the moment, it was normal, but her throat must be tender, for her to wince as she drank her tea.

_Just a little, from the late nights, I expect._

She'd mentioned it as a trifle, but it was the last straw for him.

"You need to rest. Go straight to bed after dinner, and I'll take care of the rest."

She moved her head to protest. _But sir, it's my job--_

"Let me worry about that." Erik nodded to the meal. "You've done more than enough. Eat something, and have some sleep. After your performance, if you're not better, I'll send for Nadir."

_Nadir?_

"Oh, yes, he used to study medicine."

_Nadir...Nadir is a doctor?_

Erik allowed himself a small laugh as she repeated her question. "Yes, and a failry good one. He retired from general practice, though. It doesn't suit him anymore." But that wasn't quite right, either. Nadir had worked very hard, had healed many people, but it had never been an act of love or desire. For Nadir, his whole life had always been gardening. He was the sort of man who infinitely preferred the quiet company of growing earth to people. Perhaps it was why he and Erik got along as well as they did.

"Now, to bed." He ordered a second time, trying to make it sound more authoritative than concerned. He assumed he'd failed when he saw her smile as she nodded her head.

* * *

Though Christine slept unperturbed, the same could not be said of another human being. Wrapped in the warmth of a down quilt, a man lay dreaming of the veil between this world and the next. And in the dream, he and the cloaked being were not strangers. They'd met before.

_'You made a bargain with me, too.' _The being said from behind a white, passive mask. The man nodded his head.

"Yes, I remember. Unlike those two, I remember nearly everything now." The man sighed and shook his head. "Of course, that's probably because of what's going to happen, isn't it?"

_'It can't be avoided; the first test is hers. She chooses to know.'_

"And it's my hand that does it this time around, isn't it?"

_'It is also what you chose.'_

"He might hate me, after this. But, I suppose, he might hate everyone afterwards, too."

_'If you are already so sure, why did you choose to come back?'_

The man turned with a smile over his features, shrugging his shoulders.

"I've been wrong before."

_'You choose to gamble on him.'_

"You know, there's not a day she doesn't miss her voice and talent. She can study piano and dance all she likes, but she's hurting all the while." The man reached into his pocket and felt for something. Out of that pocket he pulled a long, red thread and examined it.

"And she just keeps smiling, trying her best. She keeps gambling on him, and raising the stakes. If there's a possibility that she might be rewarded, I'm willing to take my chances, too."

* * *

Erik had seen her leave his home dressed in jeans and a pink sweater, the dress she'd wear for the evening still in the garment bag she held.

_I'll be going now, Sir._

She smiled nervously, already her hands twitching in anticipation of playing before a crowd. Erik had never known that feeling, before she'd come into his world.

"Have your moment, Christine. I'll be watching." He had murmured in reply.

Now he sat in his viewing room, at the chair, watching the mildly interesting program of the Garnier's biannual evalutations. The students of each year were grouped together on these projects, and then presented at the Spring and Winter recitals. Some were rather entertaining, and others slightly less so. There was a girl who played the cello with remarkable skill, and one who muddled through an Italian aria and had the nerve to take a five minute bow before leaving the stage. Erik would have to have a talk with the chairmen about _that_ particular performer.

But as Christine and Vienna came up on the program, he pushed the dvd recorder in anticipation. Later, when she calmed her nerves, they'd go over it together and perhaps improve whatever sound she and her partner had managed to produce.

He was so in tune with the program that he leaned in, elbows on his knees and hands tucked under his chin in intense interest, that he didn't notice Nadir as he stepped in.

"Figured you'd be watching," Nadir explained quietly. Erik didn't so much as turn."You know, there is a time delay on broadcasting. She's probably already done and coming home by-"

At this he did turn, and cast a glare to silence his companion before turning back.

Christine appeared, dressed in a long black dress with a slit on the right side that made Erik watch her for more than just technique. Her hair was pulled into a high bun, professional, with a few curls framing her face. Vienna, a petite girl with a short haircut who wore a bright pink dress, soon followed her. They took their places-- Christine at the piano pench, Vienna before the microphone, and their performance began.

The prerecorded drum beats began long before any audible melody could be heard by the audience.

"This song is called _Drought_," Vienna said softly, licking her lips.

Finally, Erik watched Christine's fingers grace the keys in sure, easy notes. The drums only kept a faint meter upon the melody. On and one the notes went, weaving her spell.

_'Summer move forward and stitch me the fabric of fall  
wrap life in the brilliance of death to humble us allhow sweet is the day  
I'm craving a darkness  
as I sit tucked away with my back to the wall...'  
_

It was Vienna's voice at work, beautiful and husky, but Erik could hear Christine in it. Nadir came steps closer, his own eyes not quite so focused. They had a different gleam to them.

_'And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought  
how much longer dear angels  
let winterlight come  
and spread your white sheets over my empty house.'_

Christine couldn't stand to stay a moment after the performance, after the applause. She'd hugged Vienna, almost cried when she heard the praise, but she felt a need to find Erik, and thank him for all he'd done to inspire her.

So she drove home quickly, in time to notice Nadir's car was there as well. Her blush returned, realizing they both might be seeing the performance. She parked the car in the garage, and turned the open door and climbed the stairs unaware of what she might find. It was only the sudden cry of outrage and fear she'd never known that caught that shattered her assumptions.

Quickly she ran to where she heard the sound, and turned into the open door. She had not even the moment to catch her breath before her eyes turned wide at the sight before her.

Erik clutched at Nadir's shirt with an enraged expression on his face. _His face_. The mask lay in Nadir's hand, and the culprit did not even raise his head at Erik's anger or her intrustion. He might not even have known she was there.

Oh, but Erik knew. It was etched in horror all over his face, and she could see it all. The pale, wax skin covering the right side of his face that could not hide the azure vein or the partially sunken nose. He still carried the scars of his past life; his burden for old sins. It was _this_ she hadn't been allowed to remember, and only now could she understand why.

His cry brought pain into her heart she'd never experienced. What agony he felt at being revealed, she had never once tasted in her life.

Her wide eyes could do nothing but stare dumbly at his transformation, even as he ran past her and out of the room without his mask. It was only when Nadir dropped the mask at her feet that she could really react. The minutes-younger her continued to perform unabashedly._  
'summer move forward and leave your heat anchored in dust  
forgotten him, cheated him, painted illusions of lust  
now language escape, fugitive of forgiveness  
leaving as trace only circles of rust...'_

"Now you now, unfortunate mademoiselle." Nadir spoke, but the voice was not his own. She looked into the eyes of something not quite human. Not Nadir at all. She recognized them.

She bent to retrieve the mask from the floor.

"What will you do with your hard-earned knowledge? His face is as terrible as his sins. Now you _do_ understand."

He spoke as Nadir. He might've been Nadir now once again, but that's not what she was paying attention to. She watched the mask in her hands, she heard her own words.

_'And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth,  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought--  
how much longer dear angels?  
Come break me with ice,  
let the water of calm trickle over my doubts  
_

She turned. She ran after him, mask in hand, leaving Nadir to spill the precious salt his regretfully necessary actions earned.

_  
'Come let me drown!  
Angels, no fire no salt on the plow--  
Carry me down!  
Bury me down...'  
_

* * *

Christine ran, her throat becoming hoarse from sheer exertion, but on she went, flinging doors open in her wake.

Erik had failed. That was his only thought as he ran on through the labyrinth of his manor. He wanted to be left in peace to contemplate the destruction of his peace with Christine. He wanted to hate them both, Nadir and Christine, and wait for the inevitable. She would leave. She wouldn't return. The sound of her piano, the sight of her smile, would be only phantoms in this shut house.

_'She saw me. She saw me. It's over.'_ He growled in the face of such choking reality. It had been bearable before; it would not be so easy again. _'She saw me. She saw me.'_ He found himself in his own bedroom, one the terrace the overlooked the garden. He flung it open, an act of desperate self-hatred. Why bother hiding his monstrous deformity anymore? His friend had betrayed his confidence, she had seen it! What did it matter anymore?

He gave a low moan, cradling his face in his hands. Had he asked for this? Had God chosen anyone else for this test, perhaps they might have borne it better. But Erik knew he was weak in the places that mattered. When rejected, he hated. When feared, he loathed. When pitied...when pitied, he wanted the darkness to take him completely. He wanted it to be over.

_'She will never see me again. Any foolish hope I harbored--all of it!--it's all my own cheat. My own illusions, my-'_

The door flung open with a strength that made his head jerk up in surprise. She stood there, panting, his mask in her hand, and for a moment he forgot he was anything other than a man.

Then she took a step forward, and the spell was broken. He knew what he was.

"Go away." He hissed at her, in a tone of anger she'd never heard before. He turned away, so she would not see. He wouldn't allow it. It was over, and he would not allow her to harm him further. He hated her simply for being _herself_.

"Leave. Now. Take a cab and have Giry come for your things! You're no longer in my employ." He glanced behind him when he did not hear her leave. She was still there, he could hear her catching her breath. He wouldn't allow it. He slammed his fist into the wall next to him, hard enough to crack the plaster. "I said go!"

To say she wasn't afraid would be a lie.

_  
'And the taste of dried-up hopes in my mouth,  
and the landscape of merry and desperate drought...'_

To say she didn't want to give up in the face of his rejection and wild temper would be untrue.

_'once I knew myself,  
and with knowing came love,  
I would know love again if I had faith enough ...'_

To say his face wasn't scarred, wasn't shocking, would be dishonest. But to leave... to leave would have been the greatest betrayal of self she might ever know. This is where she would find home. With him.

Her hands encircled him, even as he took in a sucking breath and stiffened. She knew he feared she'd turn him around just then, and pressed her head to his back to reassure him she'd do no such thing. She merely held him a moment, like this, and raised the hand that held his mask for him to retrieve.

_'Too far is next spring and her jubilant shout  
so angels, inside  
is the only way out...'_

Erik had forgotten how to breathe at the pressure of her head at his back. She didn't hold him fiercely, not did she tremble. She wasn't forcing him, and she was not forcing herself, into this contact. And it was enough to make him honest, for this moment. He hadn't wanted to be alone. He wished someone might have stayed, once they saw him. To feel the pressure of another being, the heat of a body to reassure him, when he was at his most naked...

Her hand extended to him blindly, his mask contained in those slender fingers. His hands, which had been rigidly at his sides during the whole of her display, raised themselves to take it. He slipped it back on, the cool of it both reassuring and claustrophobic. No, he wasn't ready to leave it behind, even with her presence behind him. Even because of it.

Because he could not hate her. Not for the span between two heartbeats could he ever lie like that again.

Erik turned, once composed, to look into her eyes. There was sympathy offered, but nothing spoken. He was grateful for that.

Her hands sought his, and succeeded in taking one up in both of hers. She raised it and enfolded it in hers as a few crystaline tears slid from her soft eyes. She shook her head.

_Don't._

It was all that could be said, and all that had to be. She wouldn't leave, and neither would he. Things might change, but both would be there to face them as they came.

And, though they didn't exchange another word, the span of that one syllable was all it took for Erik Desslar to fall too far in love with Christine Daae.

* * *

AN: With all of this said, Merry Christmas. Love your friends, love your family, and most importantly, love the person you grow to be. It is, perhaps, a lesson we should all learn, and not just my characters...

And, for those of you afraid I've become too serious...REVIEW!! Review, and make this a happy holiday for me!!


	23. Touch

AN: Happy New Year!! Thought I'd start off with a bang and write a longer chapter. I hope you all enjoy and leave me reviews. I was really motivated after the response I got from last chapter's.

Disclaimer: I am poor, and study English...do I have to say I own nothing?

* * *

_Her fingers tore at the secret for one pure, selfish reason._

_She **wanted** to know. _

_She'd trusted the angel, been raised by it, but then the angel became something else. A man in a mask. How that particular transformation had changed Christine from bewildered pupil to Delilah, she hadn't yet realized. She only knew it was her right to see underneath it..._

_"What a spoiled attitude, Mademoiselle,"_ the being spoke, just behind her ear, as she watched the scene play before her eyes. The phantom of legends played upon an exquisite ebony piece, illuminated only by the inconstant caress of a thousand candles' flames. He was glorious, his hands godly upon the ivory, the music reducing her to a sudden, deep sob.

But it was only the newly awakened Christine's actions that bade the first tears to fall. She crept quietly behind him, even as the current Christine would have cried out against it until her throat bled itself raw. It was only through the power of that celestial figure that she was kept rooted, eyes transfixed upon the images as they swirled about them. He'd warned her, when she'd asked to see it, that she would not be able to interfere. She realized only too late what that entailed. She would be forced to watch her past transgressions soundlessly.

There was a sound, a subtle but all too real sound, as the mask fell away. His sudden intake of breath, and hers. And then there was the face; half perfect, half horribly marred.

_'Damn you!' Erik roared to his full height, knocking the stricken girl as if she weighed nothing at all._

'God help me, I didn't know...' The mute Christine uttered it in her mind, again and again, but it would do nothing to ease the regret.

_"You could not have known how ugly he is. That was the point of the mask."_ The figure beside her explained calmly as the tempest of Erik's fury surrounded them.

_''Now you cannot ever be free!" Erik moaned. "Damn you..." A shudder, but the anger melted away. His voice was merely ache now. "Curse you..."_

'No, that wasn't...' her eyes roamed, and watched his slumped shoulders. He hadn't been screaming then. He'd been defeated. By _her_. He knew it would haunt her forever, and ... had that been _pity_ in his eyes? As much pity as he'd ever known enough to be able to give?

_"No more?"_ The being raised a hand, as if he'd read her mind or pained features, and the images died and cleared away like a fog and left no visible trace. Oh, but inside Christine there _was_ something marked, changed. _"Enough then. I have shown you what you asked for. Now, answer my question. You'd already seen his face and weathered that test. Why wish to see it again--was your curious thirst not slackened?_

_'It was me.'_ Christine could not stop her eyes from closing on the fresh tears. _'It was my fault it all ended as it did. Because I continued to think of him only as **mine**; my tutor, my friend, my angel. He belonged to me, and I did not stop to think that this was not something I could take as my own as well. To me, he'd never been a man at all.'_

But the boundary had been crossed, one which could not be returned or healed by simple apology. In damning herself to a knowledge she was not yet able to understand in her sheltered existence, she'd damned him as well. She'd wanted the comfort of a human face, and hadn't stopped to think she'd had it all along in the beauty of his voice, and the look in his eyes.

_'I had to remember,'_ she explained.

_"Heaven forgave you,"_ the being replied with more tenderness than she'd heard before in his voice. _"Do you even need to ask if he did as well?"_

_'I am afraid of his anger, of the darkness I feel still beating inside him. And I do find his face as horrible as before.'_ She was plain, and blunt, and Christine stood tall. _'Does this mean...have I failed this test? If I have, it shouldn't affect him-'_

_"Go home, Christine."_

She woke up as her alarm chimed the hour, but her eyes narrowed quizzically.

Had the being ...smiled, just then?

* * *

To say that life had remained the same after the night of Christine's recital would have been a gross neglect for the truth. Although Erik had his show and Christine certainly had her hands full with both school and the manor, things could not stay as they were before.

When Erik had slowly descended the stairs and arrived to have breakfast the morning after, a full half-hour later than usual, he'd meant to be kind. It had been only hours ago, and after all she'd seen and done and cried, wouldn't it have been terrible to make her face it by the light of day? Yes, she'd stayed, but Erik wasn't going to push her further.

This was what he was thinking when, turning into the dining room, he saw the meal, still warm, waiting for him. And Christine sat in her chair, eyes meeting his expectantly. For that moment she rendered him dumb just by her ability to sit.

_It's getting cold, sir._ She reminded him, as she stretched out her hands for the teapot and began to pour into their respective cups. Erik went and took his own seat, but watched her always from the corner of his eye.

"Thank you," he murmured, before she'd even handed him a cup or finished pouring. It wasn't meant for the tea at all. And to that, she could only smile in return.

To say that life had changed drastically, also, would be a lie. Erik discovered that after sharing the morning meal with her. The effects of timid acceptance, of the beginnings of unknown things, were subtle.

Christine noticed it only when she felt him watching her, long after they'd finished a meal or conversation. It was not the paranoid stare of a man whose secret had been uncovered, at least not after the first day. Instead it became the glances of one who couldn't quite comprehend the subject it looked on, like a linguist failing to master a new tongue; at other times, he looked at her with something _almost_ resembling admiration, but much more gratifying and possibly terribly addictive. Still, for all of the oddity and unnameable qualities in his gaze, she remained with him. She lived beside him, and felt no burden when she looked at the mask anymore.

And, perhaps, that was the subtle change that caught Erik's attention. She wouldn't do as he expected. Christine wouldn't avoid returning his stare with her own, even after seeing the stretched paper skin and the horribly malformed nose beneath it. She would, as before, keep eye contact to make sure he understood her when they spoke, and glow just as she used to when he said something that had any hint of kindness in it; but her eyes could take on such a deep look as she watched him, too. Something he'd never witnessed before, she could look into him and make him feel as though she couldn't see the mask, or didn't choose to. What that did to him, he still could not understand. He could only be grateful.

* * *

"Christine," Erik called her name, some time later, before knocking on her bedroom door. He expected to response, but thought it the proper thing to do. He'd caught her looking peaked by the afternoon, and ordered her to lie down while he made a cup of tea for her. When he opened the door, she was lying in bed as instructed, reading a small thermometer carefully. But all Erik had to do was see the hot pink color her cheeks were turning, even as she shivered with apparent cold, to know that she wasn't feeling well.

"Give it here," he told her calmly as he set the tea on the night stand. Christine shook her head, but handed it over all the same.

_A little fever. From the shift in weather, most likely. Summer's coming early, isn't it?_

Her reassurance at the commonness of her illness didn't to a thing to help. He sighed and set the thermometer down as well. 102.8. Well, that certainly wasn't little.

"Do you feel sore anywhere?" He looked her over, his hands touching her cheek and studying her tired eyes before he could think about it. "Would you like me to call Madame Giry? Anyone?"

The idea was in her head before she could think to stop it. She raised her hand to his and looked at him expectantly.

_If you could call Nadir, sir ... please?_

He didn't even have enough time to enjoy the weight of her hand in his before he reacted to her request. He withdrew his hand and took a few steps away.

"I won't allow him into my home, Christine. Not after _that_." He spoke with deadly calm, but Christine new the whole truth. It had been Nadir's willing body that played host to the one who truly revealed Erik to her. And she'd asked the being to do it. Nadir was not the one at fault, at least not completely.

_Please forgive him._ She urged, sitting up a bit from the bed. Her eyes closed and she swallowed with difficulty.

"Why?" He asked sullenly. They'd gotten on just fine without that irritating man so far-- why ruin it?

_Because I need you to,_ she explained, _and he needs you._

For a moment he did feel humbled at the thought of being _needed_; by Christine, by Nadir, by anyone at all. To hold importance, not because of your music or money or status, but for being a man-- that was new.

"He's done a terrible thing. You know that."

_I don't think so._ She answered honestly. _But, wouldn't it be sad for you, losing a real friend because he did something he felt was right...even if it wasn't?_

* * *

"It's because of Christine that you're here at all," Erik muttered as he closed the front door after Nadir had walked through.

"I don't think I'm likely to forget," Nadir murmured, walking a little slower than he used to in Erik's home. To be honest, he had felt apprehensive at being confronted with his cruelty so soon. He wouldn't have done it quite yet, if this hadn't been about Christine. "What was her temperature the last time you checked?"

"102.5. Not a marked difference, but she's calmer. She was shaking from cold just a while ago." Where she was concerned, it seemed, the two could set aside the awkwardness of repairing their friendship.

After knocking and entering, Erik stood back as Nadir went to her.

_Nadir,_ she had mouthed, a little look of relief flitting about her flushed features.

"Hello, Christine. I'm going to need to take a look at you, I'm afraid." Nadir went to work straight away. He took both temperature and blood pressure, checked her eyes and ears and mouth, and finally nodded his head when Erik's patience was on the verge of collapse.

"Well, Christine, you've been very tired lately, haven't you?" He put his things away in his brown bag and pulled out a prescription pad. "All of the stress of your visits to the sign language class and school and your work here might've finally taken a toll on you."

"What are you suggesting?" Erik growled faintly.

"I'm saying she pushed herself and weakened her immune system. Her blood pressure's low and she's running a fever, but it's nothing some sleep, a cool bath, and some precautionary fever reducers and vitamins won't fix within a day or two." He finished writing and ripped the piece of paper out and handed it to Erik.

"You're sure that's all?" Erik was not one to become ill easily, but it seemed such a simple answer for Christine's half-lidded expression and the slight tremble of her lips as she spoke.

"Quite sure. There's swelling in her throat, but it's more likely attributed to irritation than her pressure or fever. Just make certain to check her fever regularly. If it doesn't break by morning or goes past the original 102.8, I'll take her to the hospital to be admitted." He turned to Christine and squeezed her shoulder. "You're my patient now, and I won't have you getting worse on us, all right?"

To this Christine could only smile and nod her head, reassuring him that she both understood the role he'd played that night and that they remained friends. Erik could only glare half-heartedly at Nadir as Christine left them to run the bath, realizing that any tensions between the two of them had dissolved the instant she smiled and accepted them both. It might take some time to mend completely, but at least nothing had fallen into disrepair.

"She's strong, but I think I'm partially to blame for her sickness," Erik admitted quietly. "All of the chores and ...the mask..."

He didn't have to say anything further to explain. Nadir understood very well what he meant-- that by uncovering what was under it, Christine might be trying too hard to be kind for his sake and return everything to normal.

"She's not that kind of person, Erik." Nadir shut his back with a click before turning to look at him. "She stayed. I'd never show my face here again if she hadn't, but she did."

"I know." Erik stared a moment longer, before opening the door to his guest. He extended his hand. "Good night, Nadir."

Nadir shook his hand, and felt the first pinpricks of relief break through his act of betrayal. "Good night."

And behind them, Christine watched through a crack in her bathroom door, a little smile lighting her features.

* * *

Taking Nadir's advice to heart, Erik kept Christine in bed and away from school and the chores while she got the rest she needed. And although she kept insisting she was well enough to do the cooking or some of the laundry, he wouldn't stand for it.

_Sir, you hired me on to take care of the house._ She sat up in bed as he held out a tray of fresh fruit and cool tea for their lunch. Not only was he insisting on managing his own meals, he'd even taken to eating with her and spending time close by in case he was needed. Of course, this meant spending little to no time on his music, and Christine did not like that.

"I wouldn't have you handling my meals for me in the state you're in." He explained as he handed her a glass. "Who knows how long _I_ might be in bed if I caught whatever it is you have?"

_I'm still keeping you from your work, and you're on a tight schedule, aren't you? _Christine frowned as she sipped her tea.

"I've got the whole of the story done, the costuming, the scenery. Nadir has dropped off the video files of the aspiring cast, and all that's left is lyric work." He took a bite of a strawberry and gave a small, wry grin she'd never seen before. "Have a little more faith in me, Christine."

For a moment, she thought the fever might've made her see it, but there he was. Smiling, making jokes and being so _kind_, even after she'd seen him. It relaxed her, and made her aware of every one of her nerves, all at once.

_When I get up, the whole house is getting a thorough washing._

"Well, that's when the music will start up again, too." Erik agreed. Christine looked up at him, her question clearly written all over her face, and it caused him to look away to her photographs sharply before she could make him word it.

_Why are you staying here?_

"These are ... your parents?" He took a breath, forming the questions carefully. Of course they were her parents, he'd seen them at the theater, but it was something to ask before turning back to her. It was something to keep him from lying or answering honestly to the real question she wanted to ask.

_Yes,_ she nodded her head with a smile, _my mother was a costume designer, my father a musician._

"Really?" His interest was slightly peaked at this. So her mother was _that_ Anne Daae...

_Yes. Papa worked many small jazz bars, and mother was just becoming recognized for her contributions to film._

He'd heard of her, even if her husband had remained a mystery. She'd had a hand in a good deal of period costumes he'd seen. In fact, he could recall Nadir mentioning the name in relation to his new production. He'd have to look into it later...

"You come from talent," he remarked, a slight pride edging into his tone. She nodded enthusiastically at this, her original unasked question forgotten for now. He allowed himself to relax then, and watch her animated features. Even when tired, or sick, her eyes always held a spark of strange light; he admired it, this touch of the divine in her.

_What were your parents like?_

Had he been overly used to the flow of natural conversation, he might've seen this question coming. But he wasn't, he hadn't, and now he was looking very intently at his gloved hands for her answer.

He stared so long and intently that he realized her hand had reached out and held his until seconds after the fact. Warily, he raised his eyes to meet hers-- he just didn't know what to say, and she knew it. Still, she sat next to him, hand in his, and waited for anything he might say, no matter what it might be. And for that fact he did want to say something, but it wasn't a simple question. It brought back years of memories he could've sworn he'd managed to carve out of himself.

"I never knew my father, not really." Erik began slowly, reliving old photographs and scents from the far gone past. "But my mother danced ballet."

_What was she like?_

"Oh," he sighed and shook his head. "That's not something..."

_You can say yet...sir?_

Her eyes darted about his features, as if they told the story he could not tell her. And, perhaps, that was true. If not for childhood fear, unspoken hatred, why else would he hold a mask closer than another person? And, who might inspire it best by the one closest to that child?

Erik took her hand between his and examined it a moment. It was smaller than his, but so warm he could feel it through his gloves. Where was it inside her, he wondered, where did that warmth and otherness originate from. It radiated through her smile, her eyes, her touch--but where did she find it?

"But I will tell you someday," he decided, lifting his gaze. "When you're out of bed, and better. I promise you that."

It seemed to be enough, because Christine merely smiled and nodded her head before speaking again.

_All right...but, in the meantime...won't you take off your gloves? _Her question was innocent, simple. She'd seen his hands, they weren't scarred; he simply preferred to be as cloaked and concealed from everyone as he could be. She _knew_ it.

_It must be uncomfortable, in warmer months, to wear them._ She offered with a smile, and for a long time waited for him to speak. He, in turn, regarded her with great care and wide eyes.

Finally, he pulled his hands away, and she worried she'd asked too much of him. The only indication to the contrary was the subtle rustle of the material as he slid them off. First one, then the other, until she could see his long, pale fingers in the light.

"It is," he whispered.

And she smiled, and held out her hand to him, and Erik's took a slow route to it. To feel what he hadn't allowed himself before-- her skin on his own-- was a dangerous, dizzying spell. His fingertips brushed over hers in a smooth, soft brush stroke. Without realizing it she almost closed her eyes at the innate artistry of his touch. His fingers traveled down to trace her palm as his thumb ghosted over its top, and reveled in the reality of her. She really was as warm as he'd thought. Warmer.

Their eyes locked, breath hitched. But there they were, frightened and strangely drawn into the simplest of acts. Holding hands.

"It's almost unbearable," he admitted.

_The...heat._ She added.

_Ring, ring._

Whatever spell the moment had woven, the sound of modernity cut it short. Erik stood quickly, too quickly for Christine's liking, and moved away.

"I'll answer. Just...rest, Christine."

He both cursed and blessed the opportunity to retreat. To touch her hand was to cement what he already knew in his blackened heart, and he could not stand the burning truth for long. Even that moment had been too much. It had taught him to want more.

"Yes?" He picked up the line and spoke in a tone more tense than he'd intended.

"I wonder why you must bother with picking up your own calls, when you have such a pretty maid at your service."

Erik could barely contain a sneer at what the voice meant. Joseph Buquet was paying a visit. Soon.

* * *

AN: Another visit, another stir of trouble for our mute heroine and her less than willing knight. Music, dance, extorsion, and the divine--- all in the next chapter, so stay tuned! Oh, and REVIEW!! 


	24. Trust Me

AN: I apologize for the delays, everyone. I really want to write this story, and I very much appreciate all of the encouragement that's been given to me. I've just had a great deal of personal problems lately, and I needed to take a break to sort myself out. That being said, I hope you will all enjoy the story and REVIEW (yes, I really appreciate those).

Disclaimer: I own material goods, the retail value of which is somewhere around $47.63. I wonder how much the rights to PotO cost...

* * *

"_Yes?" He picked up the line and spoke in a tone more tense than he'd intended._

_"I wonder why you must bother with picking up your own calls, when you have such a pretty maid at your service."_

_Erik could barely contain a sneer at what the call meant. Joseph Buquet was paying a visit. Soon._

...………….

If Joseph Buquet called, it meant he wanted something and was intent on getting it. Erik was by no means a stupid man, and Buquet was not a thrifty one.

Still, it was not money—that was no issue at all—that caused the painful knot in Erik's throat. Buquet had long been there, long demanding and complaining and mocking. But there had never been a Christine to protect within his walls.

_Christine…_

"Her business is none of yours," Erik was too quick to remind him.

"Is it not in her job description?" The smug sound was more than enough to give Erik the image of Buquet's smile. "Your _manor_ got along fine without the little darling, you devil. So I have to wonder what other services she could possibly provide for you."

Even without the little chuckle that Joseph provided at the end, Erik could feel the barb. He wanted to rail at him, felt the desire to throttle him more than ever, but this would be playing into Buquet's hands. As much as money, becoming obviously affected by his words proved a reason for Buquet's infrequent calls. He had Erik in a convenient position, and enjoying watching him twist and squirm futilely. But someday, _someday_, it would be ended between them….

Erik _swore it._

"Does this conversation have a point?" Erik asked coolly, intoning boredom as best he could.

"Always cutting to the quick. All right, then. I need a little spending money."

Erik audibly sighed. "I'll have the amount deposited—"

"I don't like to be so formal, you know that."

Damn Buquet, but Erik did know.

"I think it might be rude not to come see you personally for the money, don't you?"

"When?" Erik asked through gritted teeth.

"I'm driving, actually. Be there in twenty, so make sure your girl is ready to open the door for me."

No sooner did Buquet hang up than Erik let out a growl that echoed through the manor. No, Buquet would not be given the opportunity to frighten Christine again—he would not permit it, not in his own home!

He ran upstairs to get a few necessary things, before going into Christine's room. Time was short, and he could only do so much…

…………..

* * *

Christine had frozen in place for a few heartbeats, eyes resting on her hand where he had touched her. His hands….she had never felt such hands. They were not warm, the skin was not like her own. His fingertips, his hands, were calloused by an entire lifetime of musical study. The strings, she knew, cut and bit into anything soft, until the skin learned to harden itself. But she had held her father's hands, and they had known a violin—it was not this that she felt different about Erik's hands.

They were cold, but not ice. Even now, she felt the imprint of his touch lingering like dying embers. Erik burned like cold transmuted into fire. She could not remember, would never know, if his touch had been like this in the lonely past…but she would not forget now.

These thoughts kept her from hearing the conversation, the warning in Erik's tone, until she heard the latch click in her own bedroom door. Startled, she looked up to see Erik walk in, a frown beneath the mask and a small black case under one arm.

_Sir?_ She asked quietly, but he would not meet her gaze.

Silently he sat beside her and opened the case. Inside it contained a few vials of assorted size and color. Selecting an amber-colored liquid, Erik removed the dropper and placed three drops into her tea before stirring it.

"Drink that, Christine." His voice commanded, and he did not want her to argue with him. Setting the case down he lifted his eyes in a stern expression.

At his look, her hand instinctively went to the cup, but she stopped. She shook her head gently.

'_What's in it, sir?'_

"Something to help you get some rest." In truth, that was exactly what it was. The strength of it, and his motives for giving it to her, however, were another matter entirely.

'_I've had plenty of sleep already, and if it was Nadir on the phone-'_

"Don't be obstinate!" He snapped, losing patience as he realized he was losing time. However, at her stricken expression, he eased himself. His hand, still uncovered, curled slightly, until a finger brushed her chin and gently bade her to look up.

At the request of the pale fire of his hands, Christine looked up in time to see Erik's free hand offering her the cup.

"Trust me, Christine," he watched her eyes the entire time, as he held the cup to her lips.

Finally, with shaking hands, Christine drank from the tea. It was the same taste, only with a …flowery scent. She was about to ask him why he had wanted her to rest so badly, when she noticed he was putting his gloves on once more. But why?

"You'll feel much better," he spoke quickly, too quickly. "Nadir said more rest would hurry improvement." Now he was speaking slower. "Christine?" He was slurring her name…wasn't he?

She watched him curiously. He had always been articulate, and never used such abnormal speech patterns…so what was wrong with him? And why did he look so guilty, as he eased her back and covered her with a quilt? She didn't need help for that.

"Forgive me," Erik murmured, as her vision blurred and her eyes closed suddenly.

And she knew exactly what he'd done.

………………

* * *

"_Christine…_"

She could hear her name, called out in a familiar whisper, but her eyelids were so heavy.

"_Christine….Christine…"_

Finally she forced her eyes to open, only to be greeted by a field of tall grass swaying about her, touching the blue sky.

'_Is this a dream?'_

Christine sat up slowly, tired eyes raking the landscape before her. Waves and waves of green grass flowed before her, and the air picked up its sweet scent.

"_You are with me."_

The voice behind her startled her, and she turned. The hooded being stood, watching her, his voice eerily familiar.

'_He drugged me,'_ she sighed noiselessly, and stood. She wore a white dress, the hem of which waved here and there where the wind caught it.

_"Yes, he did."_

_'He wouldn't do it unless he thought he had to.'_

"_What makes you so certain?"_

'_I have to trust him.'_ It seemed simple enough, but it was difficult to do. For all of his kinder moments, he remained reclusive, a mystery. And for any progress she might have made, it was clear she hadn't yet completed her task. _'I will wake up in that world, when I am ready to. He will explain it to me then.'_

"_You forgive him?"_

'_I have to believe I will.'_

_"Why, little ingenue?" _

Her hands floated over the waving grass around her.

_'I hope he'd forgive me.'_

……..

* * *

"It's a shame your maid's home sick." Buquet said languidly, sitting in Erik's study and pouring himself a snifter of the brandy he kept there. Erik only watched through narrowed eyes.

"Shall I write you a check?" Erik asked as casually as he could, removing his checkbook from his desk drawer and drawing out a fountain pen.

Joseph gave the spiced liquid a delicate sniff. It might have made him appear more of a gentleman, if he hadn't then downed the entire amount at once. Erik suppressed a sneer as best he could at the man's boorish behavior.

"Well," he spoke slowly, after a breath, "if we're not going to have a pleasant conversation, and since there's no one else here to talk to…"

Joseph was talking about Christine, but Erik had taken precautions. He had safely tucked her into bed once more, reassuring himself that her breathing was rhythmic and normal, before locking the door from the outside. Erik patted the black key in his breast pocket. Joseph would not have the chance to so much as leer at her, not while Erik was standing.

Erik's script graced the check, and he held it out to Buquet.

"I've been generous, so I don't expect to see you for a very long time." His fingers kept steady as Joseph stood and took it from his hands.

Buquet's mouth was indiscernible as he studied the amount for a moment, before he cocked his head and whistled low.

"I'll be good for a while, then." Joseph agreed, folding the check neatly and putting it into his pocket. "But isn't this going to be a dent in your finances?"

"You of all people know just how well off my finances are." Erik quipped before he had the chance to think twice on it. Joseph was nearly out of the house, and he had Christine to check on…

"Yes, I do." Joseph spoke in a cold voice, and Erik realized the mistake he'd made. He'd touched upon a sore subject. "We aren't all so lucky to be born with a silver spoon in our mouths."

Even when his eyes were hard and cold, his mouth twisted in a scowl, Joseph Buquet was still a handsome man. His tan was evidence enough that he'd been out in the sunlight, with people.

_No, we're not all so lucky,_ Erik thought bitterly.

"It must be nice to live idly on what your daddy left you." Joseph flung out that word, 'daddy' like it was poison. Already he was at the door of the study. "What I take isn't even a little," he muttered darkly, before slamming the door closed behind him.

* * *

Erik remained where he was for a moment, but his ears waited patiently. Sure enough, the engine of Joseph's cruelly used car revved and he was sure the man was gone.

Devil child. Yes, he'd been called that for most of his life, and Buquet hadn't forgotten it. In fact, the man had never called him by name. He had never been a man, had never been _Erik_; he had only ever been the devil child.

With a sudden cry he picked up the glass Joseph had touched his lips to, and hurled it to the wall. It shattered musically into pieces.

'_Devil child, devil child…'_

He left the glass lying there. Christine was still staying in bed another day, and Erik was accustomed to cleaning up after his temper well enough. At that moment he needed to see her, and know that she was there, and warm.

With a quick walk e was at her door, key in the keyhole and turning. He stepped inside and sighed in relief. Had he expected to find something changed? That she was not there anymore?

Christine slept, exactly as he'd left her. Easing the chair closer to her bedside, he checked her pulse and breathing. All was as it should be, and she did not look as though she was sleeping uncomfortably.

His hands, gloved once more, smoothed her hair back. Would she see a devil when she opened her eyes, or would she see a man? Erik did not want to know the answer, because he already knew what he saw in _her_.

A girl, years younger, quiet and a little sad. And beautiful and brave. With hands warm and soft and giving.

Christine sighed in her sleep, turning her head only slightly into his palm unknowingly.

'_Devil child, devil child…'_

Yes, it still echoed in his mind, his old fears and doubts. But he could hope, even someone like him could _wish_, for time and patience to work their spell.

And, perhaps someday, she might see a man standing where he was.

* * *

* * *

AN: Buquet's got a connection to Erik-- but what is it? And what is Christine supposed to do to save Erik?

I know I mentioned dancing before, too, but it's coming up soon...along with a painful realization for Christine. The past, the song, the dance, and the price of innocence are all coming in the next installment. So REVIEW and stay tuned to find out ;)


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